


The Woebegone Kid

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bonding Experiences, Depending on Your Interpretation, First Kiss, Happy Ending (maybe), M/M, Pop Psychology, Possible Insanity, Post-Season 2, Psychological Horror, Surrealism, Survivor Guilt, Temporary Amnesia, inspired by Silent Hill, we all go a little mad sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, this is the third time you’ve saved me from drowning.”</p><p>Stiles’ expression turns fierce, challenging. “And I’d do it again. Whether you like it or not.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woebegone Kid

**I.**

The letter in his jacket pocket is addressed from Laura, and the name on his I.D. reads Derek Hale. Beyond that, he’s lost at sea. 

The car - his own, he assumes, given that the keys were amongst his belongings upon waking alone in the motel - drives smooth and steady along the canyon road through the jagged cliffs and looming tree branches, twin bulbs burning bright in the headlamps and slicing daggers of light through the morning mist. Blinking away the dust of sleep, he shakes himself out of his sedated state and focuses ahead at the yellow line guiding his path.

Coming down through the mountains, he can see the rooftops of the higher buildings piercing through the thick blanket of fog hanging in suspension throughout the town below. The coiling tendrils of grey vapor peter out near the the outskirts of the suburban streets where the blacktop turns to dirt and winds its way off into scenic highways aimed eastbound into the land of thickets and vines growing out from the gutters of the old city’s drainage network. The glitter sheen of rust peels away from the scratched surface of a hub cap popped loose from an abandoned tractor sat out in the middle of a field, and Derek swears he can see the indented grooves sparkle as he passes by.

Though it hardly seems possible, the clouds above begin to grow denser as the car reaches the lower planes of elevation, cloaking the sun in gossamer-like gas and casting all into a sickly golden haze. The engine rumbles as Derek presses harder on the pedal, and gravel churns up beneath his tires as he crosses the bridge over the whitewater rapids and rounds the bend, breaking through to sparser forest cover. 

Just outside the city limits, the graveyard peeks out through the brume, all stone crosses and white alabaster statues arranged in rows on the green hill. A sense of unease settles in Derek’s gut, and he slows the car as he draws nearer; animal instincts in undisputed agreement with the warnings of his subconscious. As he comes to a halt, he spies a figure far out in the field, obscured by the mist and standing in the shade of a naturalized cypress tree - a boy, Derek thinks, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, hands stuffed in his pockets, lean body hidden underneath the bunchy folds a red hooded sweater. Kid’s standing at a gravestone, head lowered in contemplation, still.

Derek pulls to the side of the road and parks in the grass. He ought to continue on, but he can’t deny the unsettling pull drawing him to place; whatever the reason, he’s meant to be here.

There’s a muggy feeling suffusing the air, a moisture in the fog. The soles of Derek’s shoes turn brown with powdery topsoil, heels kicking up dandelions as he walks along. He hears a whirring overhead - somewhere in the beyond, too far to spy - like the rapid fire spinning of an airplane’s rotor blades.

As he marches up the hill, he sees that the boy’s - and it _is_ a boy - back is turned, his hood hung down around his neck. A dark brown head of hair pokes out above the red, buzzed short. He’s eerily still, even when Derek draws near enough that his footsteps must surely be audible. The gravestone at his feet is coated in moss.

Derek stops some five yards away, leans awkwardly to one side. “Hello?” he says cautiously, trying not to spook the kid.

The boy looks over his shoulder and fixes Derek with a level gaze. He seems somewhat dazed, strangely calm. “Hey,” he says. He’s probably around 16 or 17 years old, fresh faced and bright eyed, full lips slightly chapped in the chill. His mouth slants up at the side, granting Derek a small smile.

Encouraged, Derek comes closer, moves to stand beside him. Together, they look down at the gravestone. The moss and thorns have covered the name inscribed at the bottom of the slab, and the dates underneath are faded into chicken-scratch nonsense. 

The wind whistles through the trees, clustered leaves all shivering like a writhing super-organism.

Derek shivers, reaches to zip his jacket further up his neck. He glances at the kid. “What’s your name?” he asks.

The kid shuffles his feet, pulling his hands out of his pockets and rubbing his palms together for warmth. He cups them up to his face and blows, blinking up at Derek. “Stiles Stilinski,” he says, and the name acts like a trigger; Derek’s subconscious is screaming at him now, desperately trying to tell him . . . something.

“Stiles,” he says slowly, trying it out on his tongue. Strange a name as it may be, the word feels oddly natural in his mouth, both familiar and foreign. “Stiles.” He nods slowly, scratching the sudden itch at the nape of his neck. “I’m Derek, I suppose,” he offers, extending a hand.

Stiles takes his hand without hesitation, shakes firmly. “Derek. That's nice. I like it.”

It's weirdly humorous how sincere he sounds, and Derek smiles, just a slight upward turn of the mouth. “Thanks.”

Stiles smiles back, but only briefly; his lips quickly thin out into a flat line, eyes narrowing in deep concentration, penetrating. He’s looking at Derek with a sort of intensity that ought to be uncomfortable, but instead is transfixing. Chin raised ever so slightly, the kid licks his lips, cocks his head to the side. “You new in town?” he eventually says, though it seems like he’d rather ask a very different question

Derek nods affirmatively. “Just arrived.” He glances over his shoulder. The sun may be rising higher in the sky, but the mist suffocating the local streets shows no signs of dissipating. Looking back to Stiles, he asks, “You? New or native?”

“Just arrived,” the boy parrots. His face pinches up, mouth parting. He sneezes violently into his sleeve, wipes off his nose. “Felt like I needed to be here,” he continues, smiling sheepishly. 

Derek hums thoughtfully. “Same,” he says. 

Stiles’ smile fades, expression turning wary, distrustful. “I’m not sure what’s going on,” the boy murmurs, voice small. “Things feel . . . wrong.”

Derek scratches his cheek, folding his arms across his chest as an especially strong gust of wind whips by his ears. “Yeah.” He turns, spits on the ground. “Yeah, I think I’m a little lost.”

He looks down at his shoes, watches a trail of ants marching in a line under the cover of the dewy green, bread crumbs and bits of leaves held aloft. Up in the branches of the cypress tree, a raven squawks noisily, wings fluttering as it takes flight and vanishes into the fog.

After a minute, Stiles speaks up, clearing his throat. “We could be lost together?” he suggests hesitantly. “If you want?”

Something is clearly happening here, Derek knows. Something off in his mind, or in the world, or both. And he’s certainly not one to trust strangers. Yet, all things considered, he can’t deny that he’d rather be clueless with a friend by circumstance than clueless alone. So he nods and gestures back down the hill in the direction of the car. “Yeah, I think that sounds good.”

Stiles’ shoulders slump in relief, and he flashes Derek a grateful smile before stepping in line, following him across the field to the road with his shoes squelching in the wet earth.

The warmth of the Camaro’s interior is welcome after standing in the brittle chill, and both boys breathe out audible sighs as the heater kicks to life along with the engine. The radio frequency still isn’t working - static roaring over the speakers - and Derek flips it off in favor of the ambient sounds of nature. The car pulls back out onto the road and makes for the town.

At his right, Stiles is sprawled out comfortably in the passenger’s seat, gaze focused through the windshield, trying in vain to see through the mist. The nervousness displayed on his face is a perfect mirror of Derek’s own emotions - bottled deep inside and hidden by a mask of indifference.

Up on the left, a sign formed by thick wooden planks emerges from the semi-darkness, white chalk letters spelling out a standard greeting: 

 _YOU ARE NOW ENTERING BEACON HILLS_.

 

**II.**

The place looks to be deserted, essentially a ghost town. Parked cars line the curbs of the downtown streets, but not a single running engine can be heard. Most shop signs read _Open_ , but the doors remain shut. Not a voice carries on the wind, nor does the light pitter-patter of footsteps falling gently on the uneven sidewalk.

A pang of hunger rumbles in Derek’s stomach, overshadowing his unease. Stiles’ gut makes a similar noise, and after exchanging a pointed look, the boys pull the Camaro to a stop outside a small Mexican restaurant with a giant cardboard sombrero mounted over the archway. Clumps of withered grass poke up through the cracks in the sidewalk around the perimeter of the parking lot, crisp and brown and decayed. The boys enter together, warming their hands and glancing around at the abandoned streets.

It’s empty inside, little round tables set out in a scattershot arrangement. The counter at the front is collecting dust.

Derek squeezes into a booth by the windows, shedding his jacket and folding it on the seat next to him. He raises an eyebrow when Stiles walks past him and pushes past the open door to the kitchen, but he refrains from commenting. The boy returns less than a minute later, basket of chips in one hand and a bowl of salsa in the other.

“Didn’t seem like we were going to get any service,” he offers in explanation, plopping down across from Derek and pushing the snacks towards the center of the table.

Derek shrugs. “Fair enough.” He plucks a chip out of the top of the pile and dips it in the red sauce, chews slowly. It's nothing spectacular, but it'll do for the moment.

Stiles slumps back in his seat, stretching. He looks out the window, scanning the streets for signs of life. Coming up empty, he turns his focus back to Derek. “So. What brings you to town?” He props an elbow up on the table, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand. “You’ve kinda got that mysterious loner vibe going on. Like maybe you’ve got a score to settle and you’ve come back for revenge.”

“This isn’t the Wild West,” Derek replies. He doesn’t exactly smile, but the tension around his eyes seems to loosen a bit. Stiles waves a dismissive hand.

“No, but it might as well be.” He takes on a meaningful expression, glancing at all of the empty tables around them.

Derek grunts. His foot taps under the table, nerves hyping up again as he is consciously reminded of their apparent isolation. He bites into another chip, glaring out the window. “Where do you suppose the people are?” he asks lamely.

Stiles yawns, hunches over to rest his forehead on the table, arms sprawled out lazily. “I dunno. I think it’s just us, man.” He keeps his head down for a moment, snapping up expectantly when Derek slides a piece of paper over to him.

“It's from my sister,” Derek explains, crossing his arms defensively. Stiles nods, unfolds the paper to lie flat on the table. He reads without speaking, mouth moving along with the words. Derek watches him, eyes flickering down to stare at the upside-down scrawl of Laura’s handwriting:

_Darling brother,_

_I hate to begin this letter on a discouraging note, but I feel I must be blunt. It pains me deeply to see you so consumed by guilt, wallowing in the tragedies of our past. I had hoped you would be able to move on and experience new joy in your life, but I can see now that, left to act of your own volition, you would choose not to seek out happiness. I love you dearly, and it is my sincerest wish that you might return home to me, and that together we might find some measure of peace. If nothing else, at least promise to meet with me? I miss you terribly._

_All of my love,_

_Laura_

_P.S. If you should choose to take me up on my offer, I will be staying at our old house in Beacon Hills. You can find me there._  

Stiles folds the paper, passes it back. “Heavy stuff, by the sound of it,” he murmurs, sounding sincere.

Derek pockets the letter. He coughs. “She’s dead,” he says stiffly, expression grim. Stiles blinks at him.

“What?”

“She’s dead,” Derek repeats. “Died when I was a teenager.”

“Ah.” Stiles looks more thoughtful than skeptical; a good sign, as far as Derek is concerned. “Well, that’s . . . spooky.”

Derek snorts. “That’s one way to put it.” He runs his hands through his hair, messing his bangs up at the front. Letting out a long, slow sigh, he fixes Stiles with a shrewd, calculating stare. “And you?”

Stiles jerks out of his thoughts, startled. “Huh? Sorry, what?”

“You. What’s your business here?”

“Oh.” The kid relaxes, tension loosening around his eyes, cheeks puffing up as he slides into an easy smile. “You make it sound so official.” His smile weakens when Derek doesn’t respond. He chews on his lip, scratches at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Look . . . I mean, you know something’s wrong, yeah? Like, it’s not just me? I feel sort of like I’m . . .”

He trails off, voice dying in his throat. Derek’s eyes narrow. “Like you’re what?” he prompts. Stiles flails a bit; jerky, helpless movements. 

“I don’t know, man. You’re not getting a major case of déjà vu here?”

“Not really.” Derek fiddles uselessly with the fork rolled up in a napkin at his left, rubbing his thumb up and down the spine. “I don’t think so.”

Stiles huffs frustratedly. “Really? Then why did you pick me up at the graveyard?” He says it accusingly, jutting his chin out in challenge, like he thinks he can intimidate Derek into honesty.

Derek glares at him. “I don’t know,” he admits eventually, muttering the words through gritted teeth. “It just felt like the thing to do at the time. I’m starting to regret it, though.”

“No you’re not.” The kid shakes his head, completely confident. “No you’re not because you know there’s a connection between us. You felt it, I can tell.” He leans forward, a sly angle stealing over his expression. “We know each other, don’t we?”

“If we did, we would fucking _know_ so,” Derek retorts. “Shut up and let me think for a minute.”

Stiles’ lip sticks out in a pout, but he relents, leaning back into the bench and sulking silently, squirming a little in his seat. 

Up on the wall above the arch of the doorway, a great wooden clock is quietly ticking, second hand snapping out in a circle in succinct rhythm. The humming of the refrigerators in the kitchen resound over the whipping of the ceiling fans.

Derek cracks his knuckles. “What were you doing in the graveyard?” he asks abruptly.

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise. “Just needed to be there, I guess.”

It’s as vague and honest as any of Derek’s own reasons, and it brings them no closer to an understanding of their situation. Derek grits his teeth. “Alright then.” He stands, pulling on his jacket. Stiles looks up in alarm.

“Wait, are you leaving?”

Derek gestures for him to follow. “You can come if you want, but we’re not staying here.”

Stiles scowls, grabbing a fistful of chips and cramming them into his mouth as he follows Derek through the door. “We just got here! Didn’t even get to eat, really . . .”

Coming out into the cold once more, Derek zips his jacket up tight, surveying his surroundings as he crosses the parking lot. It may just be a trick of the light, but he swears he can spot shadows lurking in the nearby alleys. They’re amorphous, unformed and without discernible shape; and they disappear into the grey whenever Derek tries to get a closer look.

Somewhere in the span of the boys’ conversation in the restaurant, the Camaro’s engine apparently decided to die. Twisting the key in the ignition, Derek glares at the dashboard as the sputtering noises fade into nothingness. Stiles shrugs cheekily, claps him on the shoulder. “Looks like we’re walking,” he says, flinging his door open and hopping outside.

They make a pair: the disheveled man with wild hair and the red hooded boy with a spring in his step, both of them making their way through the fog and down the roads of Beacon Hills, searching for something. It’s eerie, knowing that somewhere above the impenetrable mist, the sun is shining down upon the world; all the while stumbling through makeshift dusk in the gross glow of the hanging street lamps. The sidewalk breaks into splinters of rock, and Stiles keeps tripping on the cracks, clinging to Derek’s arm for support. Derek lets him, grudgingly.

“We should head over to the police department,” Stiles suggests after a few minutes of silence. “Maybe get some answers?”

A tin can falls out of a pile build to the top of an overflowing dumpster, and the resulting clanging sound makes Derek freeze up. “I’m not sure what good that would do,” he says, relaxing when sees the noise is just a result of the wind.

Stiles shrugs. “Do you have a better idea?” he asks.

Derek doesn’t. Frustrated, he motions for Stiles to lead the way. The boy runs across the empty street and grabs a map from a rickety wooden information station, waves for Derek to follow. “I think it’s just a few blocks over!” he calls, already heading around the corner and vanishing behind the post office. 

A throaty howl echoes throughout the darkness, seemingly from all around. It's faint, faraway; probably from the woods. Derek hesitates for a moment, taking the time to glance around once more before jogging after Stiles, catching up.

A dirty newspaper blows across the road, catching against the back left tire of a parked car. It flaps in the breeze, coming apart at the seams. Whispers of voiceless creatures carry from the gutters to the rooftop landings. The howling fades.

 

**III.**

The station door is unlocked, and Derek can tell immediately upon entering that the building is as deserted as anywhere else they’ve passed on the way over. The receptionist’s desk chair is empty, spun at an angle to face away from the blank computer monitor. The hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights turned to the dimmest setting. Derek bristles at the ambient groaning of pipes in the walls.

The place gives him the creeps.

“Hello?” Stiles calls out, completely unnecessarily. He looks as defeated as Derek feels. “Anybody there?”

“Clearly not,” Derek says, pushing past him. He stomps down the hall to the office at the end. The placard reads _Sheriff_. The name below the title is scratched out.

Stiles trails after him like a puppy. “Nothing wrong with checking,” he huffs. Then, thoughtfully, “Although, I suppose that’s the sort of stuff people say in the movies. You know, right before the alien pops out of floor and eats their face off.”

Derek shoots him a withering look. He tries the office door, opens it easily. “There’s a lot out back,” he says, walking inside. “Parking for all the cruisers. See if you can find a set of keys, and we can get out of here. Head up to the house.”

“To meet your dead sister?” Stiles asks, with only a tinge of mockery. Not receiving an answer, he shrugs and pushes off from the door frame, walks back up towards the front desk. “Okay then. You keep doing . . . whatever you’re doing.”

The lights in the office won’t work, and Derek finds himself once again feeling his way through the dark. The desk is cluttered, riddled with stray papers, and the landline phone is blinking out a red beat. Curious, Derek lifts the receiver off the hook and listens. As expected, the dial tone rings in his ear.

The drawers to the desk are locked, and there’s no key to be found, but there are boxes piled high in the back corner of the room, oddly stacked in the formation of a pyramid. The labels glued to the side catch Derek’s attention. _Fire_ , they say, typed out in dark lettering. Just the single word, like that's a sufficient enough description for the contents.

Something uneasy roils inside Derek’s gut. He reaches out to grab the top box, wiping away the dust from the cardboard surface.

“Holy fucking shit!”

He jumps at the sound of Stiles’ voice, quickly dropping the box and running back into the hallway. “Stiles?” The lobby is empty, quiet except for the persistent creaking of the heater system in the walls. “Stiles?”

Shoes squeaking on the tile floor, he heads in the opposite direction, passing the Sheriff’s office and rounding the corner at the end of the hall. He pauses, spotting a door ajar down on the right, speeds up at the sight of a red hood poking out through the archway.

“Holy shit,” Stiles repeats as Derek comes up behind him, softly this time. He’s standing rigid, staring at the ground with his hand clenching on the doorknob, knuckles turning white. Derek cranes his neck, looking over the boy’s shoulder.

There’s a body on the floor, lying facedown in a pool of its own mess, blue police uniform stained dark with dried blood. It’s a man, Derek thinks, and his head is caved in, battered to pulpy muck. The dark liquid has formed a puddle in the indented surface of the uneven tiles, and Derek can see his and Stiles’ reflections shaped into silhouetted blurs against the red.

Stiles retches drily, averting his eyes and keeling over. Derek ignores him, slipping by to crouch next to the body, inspecting. There are deep gouges in the corpse’s neck, slashed at an angle and discolored with growing rot.

“Oh my God,” Stile mumbles, wiping his mouth. He stands up straighter, face ghostly white. “Is he dead?”

Derek stares at him incredulously. “You’re joking, right?” He presses down on his knees, stands with a grunt.

“This is fucked up, dude.” Stiles is pacing now, back and forth in the space outside the doorway, carefully avoiding eye contact with the body. “We need to get out of here _right now_.” Derek shushes him with a swift, jerking motion.

“Just a minute. Let me think.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to look incredulous. “Uh, no. No, no. Definitely not. Whatever got this guy could come back and get us, too. I don’t know about you, but my self-preservation instinct totally outweighs my curiosity.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to be patient. He pauses, a thought occurring to him, and he lowers his hand. “You said ‘whatever.’ Why did you say that?”

Stiles frowns. “Huh? What do you-”

“You said ‘whatever’ got him,” Derek interrupts. “As opposed to ‘whoever.’ That seems . . . odd.”

They stare at each other for a moment, tension in the room suddenly amped up by a hundred percent. Stiles flails a useless hand. “Well. I just-” He breaks off, ducks his head and studies the corpse. Spotting the gouges, he gestures triumphantly. “Those are _claw marks_. Not exactly a human thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Derek shakes his head. “You just saw those,” he says stubbornly. “That’s not why you said what you said. Why did you say it?”

Stiles’ face scrunches up in annoyance and doubt, conflicting emotions warring for dominance. “I don’t know, okay?” he eventually grits out. “It just sort of, like, slipped out.”

Derek wants to pursue this, but the kid is right; this isn’t the time or place. A flash of metal catches his eye, and he looks up to see a row of brass keys dangling on hooks beside the door. He snatches up a pair and cups his free hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, guiding the boy away from the body and down the hall to the back exit.

The glow of the emergency light beams bright red, and Derek feels a wave of nausea as he passes underneath. The color reminds him of the smell of blood and the heavy-winged flies buzzing about decaying flesh. The door swings wide, opening up to the back lot where the cruisers are all lined in diagonal formation, barely visible through the fog - which, somehow, appears to have grown even denser over the past several minutes.

“Which one?” Stiles asks, teeth chattering. He shies away from Derek’s grip, tucking his hands under his armpits and shivering in the cold. Derek glances at number etched in the metal, squints through the mist and points down the end of the line.

“There on the left.”

Stiles runs on ahead, hood flopping behind him, footfalls echoing on the pavement. Derek follows behind at a brisk pace, glancing behind at the faint light emanating from the station. Strange how, standing alone in the dark, even an empty building housing a corpse can seem the lesser of two evils.

The interior of the cruiser is warm, and Stiles breathes a deep sigh of relief as he settles into the passenger’s seat, vapor issuing out of his mouth in bursts. Derek twists the key in the ignition. Pulling into reverse, he backs out onto the road, rear end bumping unceremoniously into the concrete as he goes over a bump.

Stiles fidgets, unable to sit still. “Actually, now that I think about it, we might have been safer inside. Maybe not _there_ , but like, in some building somewhere. You know?” He blinks owlishly, neck craned to stare at Derek, urgently seeking some sort of response. “We’re super exposed out here, and if someth- someone tries to attack us, we’re gonna-”

“If some _one_ attacks us,” Derek interrupts, “We’ll be fine. As long we stay in the car.” Stiles huffs impatiently.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Derek ignores him, flips the radio on. All he gets is static, stations churning out garbled nonsense-speak. He turns it off.

Coming down to the end of Main Street, the cluster of stores along the sides of the road begin to turn sparser, soon giving way to gnarled rows of trees. The fog blows hard across the windshield, and the wiper blades do very little to increase visibility.

A crackling splits the sky, and Derek thinks he sees a flash of lightning come down on a distant hilltop, briefly illuminating the hidden world. The thunder echoes as it fades.

“So what are you thinking?” Stiles pipes up, right on cue. The kid seems pathologically incapable of keeping his mouth shut for longer than 60 seconds at a time. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

Stiles is unaffected by his rudeness. If anything, he looks intrigued, single-mindedly focused on whatever nonsense has floated to the forefront of his thoughts. “No, I meant - like, not in general. I meant, what are you thinking about your sister?” Derek’s face shuts down, guards coming up, and Stiles is hasty to continue. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just thinking that, uh. You know. Since she’s dead, it’s sort of plausible that the letter is fake.” He glances out the window and into the darkness. “Considering everything, I’d say it’s _likely_ that it’s a fake. A trap, maybe?"

“That doesn’t make sense.” Derek tightens his grip on the steering wheel, determinedly looking anywhere but at Stiles. “If someone wanted to get to me, I’m sure they could come up with a more believable trick than this.”

Stiles doesn’t seem convinced. “Well, it’s working, isn’t it?” he asks softly.

Derek’s gut reaction is to lash out, to snap back something scathing; but something in the boy’s expression makes the anger evaporate, vanish. Shoulders slumping, he murmurs, “I guess so.” Then, stronger, “But I’m going anyway. Even if it’s probably bullshit. If there’s a chance it’s her, I need to know.”

“How can it be, though?” Stiles is looking down at his shoes now, picking distractedly at his fingernails. “I mean, she’s . . . you know?”

They drive in silence, engine rumble resounding over the wind outside as the trees grow thicker and closer together, paved road turning to gravel as the car turns off onto the scenic drive. Derek clears his throat, tips of his ears tinging pink. “It smells like her,” he mutters, quiet enough that he’s half-hoping Stiles doesn’t here it.

No such luck. “Sorry, what?” The kid’s face scrunches up in confusion, forehead lined with wrinkles. “Come again?”

Derek growls. “The letter. It smells like her, alright? It carries her scent.”

Stiles blinks at him. He chuckles nervously, quickly cutting off with a squeak when Derek glares daggers at him. “Sorry, I just, um. Like, that doesn’t-” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “It’s just that the thing you just said is, like, gibberish. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the letter _smells_ like her? Are you kidding?"

“Never mind,” Derek spits. “Forget it.” He seethes quietly, angry and embarrassed. Stiles looks guilty for a moment, then repentant. He reaches out slowly and pats Derek’s arm, tentative.

“Hey. I didn’t mean-” Derek interrupts him with another growl. Stiles jerks away. “Okay, okay! Jesus. Don’t be such a sour-”

He stops, an odd look crossing his face. It’s gone a second later, replaced with carefully marshaled blankness, but Derek doesn’t miss the moment. “What?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Stiles looks out the window again, expression troubled. “I had a weird déjà vu thing, that’s all.”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by the screeching of metal as a dark, indiscernible shape barrels out of the woods and slams into the side of the car at full speed.

The air bag explodes out and smacks Derek in the face, and his fingers reflexively tighten on the steering wheel, holding on for dear life as the vehicle skids against the gravel, spinning out of control. Stiles yelps, startled, and Derek instinctively reaches out with one hand to try and shield the boy. The driver’s side window shatters, shards of glass flying inward. Derek cringes as the pieces slash into his cheeks.

The cruiser skitters to a halt in the dirt, a low hiss emanating from underneath the hood. Derek undoes his seatbelt, coughing. He brings a hand up to his nose, checking to make sure it's not broken. Stiles looks dazed, frozen from the shock of the impact. 

A strangled, rasping howl echoes through the trees. Derek squints through the damaged windshield, watches as a massive dark behemoth rises up from the forest floor, staggering closer to the car. “Fuck,” he whispers. He reaches over, works at Stiles’ seatbelt. “We need to go.”

“What, no!” Stiles shakes his head wildly, eyes wide with fear. He shudders as the creature lets out another wail. “It’ll flay us alive!”

“We’re not any safer in here,” Derek snarls. “Now come on!”

He flings his door open, hurrying around the back of the car to get to the other side. He helps Stiles out, pulling him along and heading deeper into the woods. Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a glimpse of the beast:

A diseased thing, it is. Dragging itself along, limping on account of its mangled hind leg, its face is a contorted mess of fur and scales - one side elongated into the snarling snout of a black wolf, the other pressed inward into a flat and snakelike surface. Eyes milky white and unseeing, the creature lumbers forward like hunchback, spitting and snarling and hissing, swinging its venomous claws in a maddened frenzy. Foam is bubbling up in its mouth, spilling out over the blackened curl of its lower lip. 

Stiles gasps, slowing in his pace as he turns to stare at the thing. Derek yanks his arm. “Come _on_.”

The beast isn’t moving too fast anymore, but the boys won’t risk it; they’re running, branches and vines whipping at their faces as they push through the thickets.

“The river!” Stiles shouts, pushing Derek to the right. “The water will cover our scent.”

Derek knocks a branch out of his way, spitting out a stray leaf as a cluster falls into his mouth. He keeps a tight grip on Stiles’ arm, never losing contact. To his relief, the mist begins to dissipate as they near the swirling body of water. He can even see the light of the moon reflected in the waves.

The whitewater rapids thunder in their ears, and Derek stumbles as their shoes splash in the mud of the river bank. Nowhere to go now except in.

The boys exchange a grim look, hesitating only until the beast’s snarling resounds once more from the grassy knoll up the slope. Derek kicks off his shoes, not bothering with the laces. “Sweatshirt,” he says, shedding his own jacket. He grabs Laura’s letter out of the inside lining and crams it down deep into his jeans pocket. Stiles grimaces, pulling the red hoodie over his head. 

“This is gonna suck, isn’t it?”

Derek grabs his hand and drags him towards the water’s edge, grinding his teeth together as the first stab of icy cold prickles the skin around his legs. Stiles looks over his shoulder, squeaking at the sight of the monster lumbering down the rocky incline. He shudders as the rapids come up to his waist.

Coming to the shoreline, the beast stops dead, jerking away from the water foaming up around its claws. Growling, it backs away, pacing back and forth, fur bristling on its back. For a moment, Derek swears he can see the thing’s monstrous features recede, giving way to something eerily human - a haunted face. And then it’s gone.

“The fuck do we do now?” Stiles asks, teeth chattering. He rubs his hands up and down his arms. “Just stand here and freeze to death?”

Derek steels himself for the cold, nudging the boy further into the river’s depths. “Start thinking creatively.” He takes a deep breath and dives, kicking out and swimming freestyle, flowing downriver with the current. Looking back, he sees Stiles just treading water, staring in disbelief. “Well, _follow_.”

“Oh God . . .” Stiles’ entire face screws up in distaste. He spares a forlorn glance at the shore and then takes an exaggerated breath, submerges.

It’s like being suspended in pure ice. Derek feels the thudding of his heartbeat inside his ribcage, slowing with his rapidly declining body temperature. He aches.

Even underwater, he can hear Stiles’ frantic kicking from behind as the boy tries to control the direction the river takes him. Coming up for air, he breathes in the smell of fish and plant life, pungent aromas causing him to choke.

The monster lets loose an enraged snarl, whimpering as its intended victims float away. Turning tail, it ambles back into the forest, vanishing into the fog without another sound.

Derek beats against the current, making for the opposite shore. His limbs feel sore, dragged down by some internal force. His eyelids droop, and he struggles to fight against the sudden onset of sleep. He hears splashing nearby, hears Stiles’ panicked voice echoing in his head.

And then he’s slipping under the waves, and all sound drowns away.

 

**IV.**

When he comes to, there are hands on his chest, pressing down in rhythmic thrusts, slamming his heart back into action. Lips press against his own, foreign breath entering his lungs.

“ _Fuck_. Derek?! Derek, breathe!”

He does - a sharp gasp sucking in cold night air, chest expanding for one glorious moment before the pain sets in and he is overcome by a coughing fit. Flinging a hand up over his face, he wipes drops of water out of his eyelashes, sitting up shakily to steady his heart. Blinking rapidly, he sees Stiles sitting beside him on a boulder, face pale, relieved. 

“Damn it.” The kid’s voice wavers. He looks shaken. “Never do that again, okay?”

Derek chokes, spits on the ground. He wipes his mouth, falls backwards with a groan. “I’ll do my utmost,” he says drily.

Stiles huffs out a little laugh, allowing himself to smile now that Derek is conscious and alert. “I seriously had to drag you to shore, dude. It was intense. I totally thought we were going to die.”

“Yeah, well.” Derek yawns, pressing his hands against his temples. He feels like he’s right on the verge of a major headache. “Not one of my greatest ideas, I’ll admit. I didn’t think the water would be that cold.” Stiles scoffs.

“Didn’t realize,” he mimics. “Next time, I get to make the plan.”

Derek shrugs. “Be my guest.” He opens his eyes and gazes up at the sky. He can see the stars now, twinkling little specks of light in the vast emptiness of space, all spread out in glittery array. His mouth turns down into a puzzled frown. “How long was I out?”

Stiles follows his gaze, nodding in understanding. “Only a few minutes.” He chews on his lower lip. “It doesn’t feel like it should be night yet, right?” he asks, giving voice to Derek’s thoughts. “It hasn’t been that long since you picked me up this morning. I don’t think, at least . . .”

The thin haze of grey clouds parts, and the full moon shines through, bathing the rocks of the river bank in silvery gleam. All goes quiet.

The hairs on the back of Derek’s neck stand up, a shiver running down his spine. He sits up quickly, eyes going wide. Stiles startles. “What? What’s wrong?”

Derek shakes his head, holds up a hand to silence him. “Wait.”

The moon is a discus in the sky, a laser aimed for the dark corner of his mind. He can feel its stare burning a hole through his skull.

He starts shaking; jerky, uncontrollable motions. Stiles starts to look panicked again. “Derek? Derek, talk to me. What’s going on?”

And then the shift hits.

Derek’s head falls back, face tilted skyward as a violent roar rips loose from his throat, spittle flying from his mouth as his teeth lengthen into fangs. His claws come forth, glinting in the light of the moon, and the entirety of his body shudders from the strain. As if being encased in the warmth of a blanket, dark fur sprouts up all over his skin, spreading rapidly. His eyes blaze red as his wet clothes overstretch and fall to the ground in tatters. 

He stands on his hind legs, fully turned. And he howls at the moon.

The memories come in quick flashes, searing into the forefront of his brain:

[Out in the forest, they’re all of them standing in battle lines, each side waiting for the other to make a move. Isaac stands at Derek’s left, trembling from fear and adrenaline, shooting furtive glances at his Alpha. Looking for guidance. At Derek’s right, Peter lounges against the trunk of a great oak, a careless smile curling his lips back over sharp white teeth.]

[The Alpha pack leader steps forward, pulling Erica along by the hair, throwing her to the ground in front of Derek. The girl is trying not to cry, blinking up at Derek in silent plea. Hunched over in pain, Boyd is struggling to get to her, to help her, but the other Alphas are holding him back. Laughing at him.]

[Jackson is pacing in the woods behind. Derek can sense his presence. It was a mistake to bring the kid along; he’s a live wire, too new to this thing. He’s going to fuck everything up with his recklessness. Derek can smell the bloodlust and fear and anger all mixed together in a noxious cocktail. A recipe for disaster.]

[The Alpha pack leader - a slinky redhead - smiles sweetly as she slices Erica’s chest open, eviscerating her. Derek bellows, torn between shock and horror, and it’s Peter, not him, who reacts first. It’s his uncle who charges forward, meeting the pack head on, falling into a tumble of nipping and snarling and slashing claws, all blood and guts and flesh tearing from bone.]

[Isaac is wounded, and Derek yells for him to run. The boy looks like he wants to protest, eyes shining with tears, but Derek pushes him away forcefully and roars in his face. And then he’s taking off into the darkness, leaving Derek to clear through the ruin.]

[Derek is ripping the blonde Alpha’s head from her shoulders when he hears the cry. He turns at the sound, seizing up in fear, and his heart clenches in pain as he sees Boyd fall to the ground. Blood gargles up inside the boy’s throat, seeping out through the wounds in his neck and staining the leaves with sticky crimson. He shudders, eyes rolling back in his head. And then he exhales. Stops moving.]

[The trees are painted red, gnarled bark faces laughing down upon the aftermath of the slaughter. Derek sinks to his knees, suddenly feeling faint. The smell of death fills his nostrils. Twigs crackle and snap as Peter slinks off into the shadows, curling up in the bushes to lick his wounds. Jackson is crouched beside the corpse of the Alpha leader, bits of her liver still stuck in his teeth. His mouth is smeared dark, dripping. He’s laughing hysterically, madness in his eyes.]

[Derek can’t bury the dead. Looking around at the massacre, he finds that he wouldn’t even know where to begin. There's just so much blood.]

[A howling rips from his own throat, a sound of sorrow and horror, and he falls to his knees in the middle of the carnage. His head spins.]

All of this comes flooding back in a relentless tide, and Derek feels overwhelmed by the horror of seeing himself. He wants to rip something to shreds, to kill and tear and drink from a still-beating heart. His eyes meet Stiles’; the boy looking back at him, stricken. 

“Derek?” he whispers, face running the full gauntlet of emotions, eventually settling somewhere between sadness and exhaustion. “Oh, Derek . . .”

Saying it the second time, the name carries the weight of knowledge, and Derek knows immediately that Stiles remembers, too. The boy reaches up, unafraid, laying his hand flat against Derek’s cheek.

“It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

His voice has a calming affect, unreasonably soothing in its gentle cadence, and Derek finds the power of the full moon losing its sway. The anger drains from his body, and he lets out a low growl, a quiet rumbling. He arches into the touch, dropping to a crouch. Encouraged, Stiles comes closer, raising his other hand to stroke Derek’s back. He presses his forehead against the werewolf’s and closes his eyes.

“Shush,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”

Derek lowers himself to the rocks with a barely audible whimper. Still shifted, he curls around Stiles and presses into the boy’s body heat. Stiles keeps stroking, petting him without a hint of mockery.

A smattering of wispy clouds slides into view, blocking out the moon. The glow on the riverbank turns dark, and the ambient noise of the crickets chirping lulls the boys to sleep.

 

**V.**

The morning brings with it the smell of burning wood, and Derek shoots up like a rocket, fearful and on edge. Whipping around, he sees Stiles crouched beside a makeshift fire pit and manages to calm down, breathing a sigh of relief.

The boy hears him, looks up and waves. “Hey,” he says cautiously. “Feeling better?”

Derek runs a dirt-stained hand through his messy hair, scratching his scalp. He grimaces at the taste of iron in his mouth - probably from one of his fangs nicking the inside of his gums. He nods. “As good as can be expected.”

Stiles graces him with a small smile, light and slanted to one side. “Good.” He gestures at the fire, where he’s strung up a pair of fish and has them turning on a spit. “Want some breakfast? I bet you’re hungry. Since we didn’t get to eat anything except those stupid chips yesterday.”

The trilling melody of a songbird echoes through the trees. The mist is back in full force, sunshine creating a golden-yellow glow in the brume. Derek’s stomach rumbles. He raises an eyebrow, nods. “Yeah, I guess so.” He comes around to sit across from Stiles on the other side of the pit. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Stiles pokes at the fish, turning them over and examining the cooked flesh. “Just another minute and they’ll be done. I don’t have a knife, but I guess you could, uh, use your claws?”

Derek snorts. “Okay.”

They stare at each other uncomfortably, each trying to read the other’s expression. With the weight of the past back on their shoulders, the tension is suddenly palpable.

Derek clears his throat. He glances at the fish, flaps a hand meaninglessly. “Didn’t know you could fish.”

Stiles looks at him strangely, seemingly bewildered. He shakes himself out of it, shrugs. “Oh. Yeah. My family used to go on a lot of camping trips a lot when I was little.” His eyes glaze over, turning wistful. “We stopped for a while after my mom - after that. But I picked up again. Scott and I went on a weekend trip last summer. He sucks at fishing, but it was fun, I guess. Wish my dad would have come.”

He picks up one of the pebbles surrounding the pit, pretending to be interested in it. Derek studies him carefully, chest constricting briefly before relaxing. “It wasn’t your father,” he says gruffly. “In the station. It wasn’t him. I could tell by the smell.”

For a second, Stiles looks confused, not comprehending. Then, understanding, “Oh.” He flashes Derek a small, grateful smile. “Yeah, I know. Not his uniform, either.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. “I’m not too worried about him. He knows how to take care of himself.”

His heartbeat says he’s lying, but Derek has the good sense not to call him on it. Instead he says, “I’ll help you find him, if you want.”

Stiles makes a noncommittal sound, trying to keep his cool. “Yeah, okay. As soon as we figure everything else out.” His tone leaves no room for debate.

“Alright.” Derek nods. 

Then he frowns, remembering the letter. He reaches into his pants pocket and retrieves it, smoothes out the crinkled paper on a flat rock. Holding it out like a map, he and Stiles examine it carefully, reading through once more together. 

“Still think it’s real?” Stiles asks softly. Derek sighs, folding the letter back up.

“I don’t know.” He shoves it into his back pocket. “Like I said, it carries her scent.”

Stiles rubs his palms together, sucking on the inside of his cheek. “Derek,” he starts hesitantly. “I think we should talk about . . .” He trails off. 

“Yes?” Derek prompts. Stiles looks away.

“How much do you remember?”

Ah. There it is. Derek’s eye twitches. “Most of it, I’m guessing,” he mutters, snagging one of the fish off the spit and biting into it viciously. Stiles stares at him in alarm.

“You’re supposed to peel off the-” He stops, rolls his eyes. “Oh, right. Werewolf. Never mind.” He sighs, runs a hand over his buzzed head, stroking back and forth nervously. “Okay, so. Like, everything?”

Derek swallows a mouthful, licks at the excess juice that dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. “I remember Jackson having trouble adjusting to the pack,” he says, reluctantly searching through the dark corners of his mind. “Isaac didn’t trust him. Peter didn’t like him.” His lips curl back distastefully. “I had to keep an eye on Peter.”

Stiles nods, listening silently in rapt attention. He notices his fish starting to burn, pulls it off the fire.

“I remember the Alpha pack arriving,” Derek continues. “They wanted to expand, of course. Said they’d spare Boyd and Erica if the rest of us submitted to their rule.”

“Yeah.” Stiles starts shredding the fish into pieces in his lap. Delicately, he adds, “You told Scott to stay out of it.” He takes a bite, chews slowly. “You told me to stay out of it.”

He says flatly, matter-of-fact, but Derek still winces. “You’d sacrificed enough already,” he grumbles. “It wasn’t your fight.” Stiles opens his mouth to protest, and Derek lifts a hand to cut him off. “It was a mistake,” he continues. “Obviously. Seeing how it turned out.”

Stiles’ hard expression disappears in a flash. His shoulders slump. “You were trying to do the right thing,” he mumbles. “In your own stupid, broody, self-sabotaging way, you were trying to keep everybody safe.”

Derek waves that off, completely dismissive. “Well,” he chuckles darkly, “you know what they say. It’s not the road to heaven that’s paved with good intentions.”

They fall silent for a short while after that, finishing up breakfast as the sun climbs higher in the sky. Derek stands with a grunt, picking at his teeth. He goes to the water’s edge and cleans his hands, splashes his face.

A warbling squawk echoes across the river’s glassy surface, and the fluttering of wings fades into the mist. The sun looks to be as bright as it’s going to get in this weather, illuminating the forest in gold, making it seem like some foreign world sprung from fantasy. Stiles stomps out the fire, kicking dirt over the pit and coughing in the resulting flurry of dust. Waving his arm in front of his face, he hops down the rocks to stand by Derek in the damp soil.

“What else do you remember?” he asks, kicking at a patch of gravel. “After the, uh, battle?”

Derek breathes shallowly, swallowing back the rising bile in this throat. He scratches idly at a spot above his eyebrow, none too discreet in hiding his expression. “That’s it,” he answers honestly. “The last thing I can think of is Jackson.” He pauses. “He was laughing.”

Stiles pats him on the shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. His hand rubs circles into Derek’s back. He stops, mouth pursing in curiosity. “That was him last night, don’t you think?” he asks. “The thing that was chasing us?”

The image of the werewolf-kanima hybrid flashes past Derek’s mind’s eye. He represses a shudder. “That would be my guess.” He shies away from Stiles’ touch, taking a step back and turning to face him directly. He fixes him with a stern glare. “Stiles, if you have any clue what the fuck is happening to us, I need for you to tell me. Right now.” He averts his eyes, ducking his face to look at the ground instead. He runs his hands distractedly through his wild hair, brow furrowed from frowning. “That’s all I remember, understand? Watching those motherfuckers destroy my pack, Jackson ripping their leader to shreds, then nothing. Fucking nothing. I woke up in a motel with that fucking note and no memory, and then I drive back home to find _you_. And only you. No one else is here. Do you want to explain that to me?”

He runs out of breath and stops talking, knees wobbling slightly as another wave of nausea hits him. Stiles just stares, slack-jawed. “Wow. That’s, uh. That’s probably more words in one minute than you’ve ever said to me in . . . like, ever.”

Derek snarls, hackles raising. “I’m not in the mood for jokes, in case you didn’t pick up on that.” Stiles holds up his palms in surrender.

“Okay,” he says placatingly. “Okay, I get it. Chill out.” He waits for the redness to fade from Derek’s eyes before lowering his hands and wiping them nervously on his knees. “I don’t know much more than you, alright? You came to me after everything went to shit with the Alpha pack, and we . . . we talked.”

Derek is pretty sure his eyebrows just disappeared into his hairline. “We talked?” he says tonelessly. Stiles nods.

“Yes. You were sort of broken up about it, dude, and-” Derek bristles, and Stiles stops abruptly. Folding his arms across his chest, the kid juts his chin out, challenging. “What, don’t you think we’re past the whole pretending big bad Alphas don’t have feelings phase of our relationship?” Derek’s mouth twitches irritably, but he doesn’t object. Stiles continues, “So yeah. We talked. And you sort of fell asleep in my bed, uh . . .”

He blushes furiously at Derek’s disbelieving stare. The werewolf rolls his eyes, gestures for him to go on. “I fell asleep, and what?”

“You fell asleep, and then I, you know, went to sleep. We both went to sleep.” He flaps uselessly, smiles weakly. “And that’s pretty much it. That’s all I remember before waking up.”

Derek makes a frustrated sound, turning on his heel to walk back up towards the trees. Stiles follows, tripping clumsily on the rocks as his shoe catches in a crevice.

The smell of smoke and fish lingers around the blackened pit. Derek glances around, taking a moment to mourn the loss of his jacket before kneeling in the dirt, pulling out the letter once more. He scans through it several times, as though he hopes the words will change, or that they’ll reveal some hidden clue he missed the first hundred times. Stiles stands idly by, leaning at an awkward angle and watching him.

“I guess we should just go to your house,” the boy suggests. “That’s what the note says to do, anyway.”

Derek huffs bitterly, crumpling the paper into a ball. “You’re probably right that it’s a trap. I know she’s not-” His voice dies, a lump rising in his throat. Which is _stupid_. Angrily, he swallows it away, shakes himself off and stands at full height. “She’s dead. I buried her. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Stiles gives him a look. “The werewolf doesn’t believe in ghosts?” Derek scowls.

“A healthy dose of skepticism isn’t something to be ashamed of. You’d do well to remember that.” 

“Hey, no need to convince me.” Stiles bends down and scoops up a flat rock, running a thumb over its smooth surface before slinging it out into the river. It skips five times across the water before sinking out of sight. “I’m as skeptical as they come. I just think it’s a little funny that a _werewolf_ \- a supposedly mythical creature who really shouldn’t exist - doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“I’m not writing it off,” Derek growls, though there isn’t much heat behind it. “But any number of other possibilities is more likely.”

Stiles dips his head. “Fair enough.” He blinks up at Derek expectantly, eyes flickering down to glance at the crumpled letter. “I still think we should go. Even if it’s a trap, or whatever. It seems like our most likely bet at finding out what the hell is going on.”

Derek considers this, grudgingly nodding in agreement after a tense pause. “And your father?” he questions. Stiles’ throat bobs.

“The point still stands,” he says, managing to keep his voice relatively steady. “We’re not going to find him by wandering around town.”

He looks sad and tired, and in an impulsive move, Derek reaches out and touches his shoulder. Squeezes. “Okay,” he says softly.

Stiles looks surprised by the gesture, hope flashing through the glaze in his eyes. “Okay,” he whispers.

 

**VI.**

Strange as it seems, they’ve never before explored the woods on this far side of the river. The long and winding trail through the golden forest world is a sight to behold; all sprawling branches splayed out across the sky like nature’s rooftop for the purpose of housing the gaseous dust sparkling in suspension over the crunchy leaves intermingled with the hard earth. The wildlife seems quieter here, but the eeriness of the soundlessness is somewhat alleviated by the distinct presence of sunlight coming in through the canopy. Thick rays shine down like flashlights from the heavens, burning yellow patches into enclaves and logs and hollowed out ditches.

The trail itself was blazed some fifty years ago, and it bears all the signs of age and use; footprints imbedded deep in the soil, gravel worn down from pressure and time. Derek and Stiles walk side by side at a pace that, while not quite leisurely, doesn’t feel especially rushed. Under other circumstances, their journey would look suspiciously similar to a casual stroll.

“I’m beginning to wonder if Peter has anything to do with this,” Derek pipes up after a long period of silence. Stiles shakes his head readily, like he was prepared for this discussion.

“No, you told me he took off after the showdown with the other pack. Said he’d probably figured out that if he stuck around for much longer, one of you would end up killing the other.”

Derek’s eyes flash dangerously. “He wasn’t wrong.”

Stiles chuckles nervously, as he tends to do when Derek hyped up like this. But this time, he doesn’t skitter away. His heart rate doesn’t increase. Maybe he’s becoming immune. “Well, I guess it's good he left then, eh?" He coughs awkwardly. "No, but seriously. I was actually considering another idea,” He glances at Derek sideways, hands shoved into his pants pockets. “Something Deaton mentioned before.”

“Deaton?” Derek queries, eyebrow arched high. Stiles shrugs.

“You didn’t want Scott or me hanging around while you guys trained up to fight the Alphas. Scott’s still a werewolf though, so it’s not like we were just going to ignore that _completely_. And after the whole Kanima-Jackson clusterfuck, I figured it would be a good idea to learn some more about the kind of stuff that’s out there. From somebody who knows what he’s talking about. You know?”

Derek grumbles wordlessly, though he doesn’t actually disagree. “Alright. So what did the good doctor say?”

Stiles scratches his head, eyes screwed up in concentration as he thinks back. “Shadow people,” he says after a minute. “That’s what he called them. Sound familiar?”

“No.” Derek frowns. “Never heard that name before." After a pause, he adds, "Sounds made up."

A branch shakes overhead, and a cluster of leaves rain down upon the boys’ shoulders. Stiles bats them away. “They’re like demons. Or spirits, or something. But not really.” He grins sheepishly at Derek’s unimpressed reaction. “Whatever, Deaton explained it a lot better. So, like, they’re basically monsters that trick you with hallucinations. They take elements of your actual life and distort them to try and drive you insane. And suck out your soul, or something.”

“Suck out your soul,” Derek repeats sarcastically. “You’re not serious.”

“Okay, well not exactly. Really, it’s more like they torture you with a false reality until you literally become one of them. And that’s how they multiply. Like darkness spreading, you know?”

Derek scratches chin, still skeptical. “What about the memory loss?” he asks. “Did he say anything about that?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he admits sullenly. “No, but that doesn’t disprove the theory. Everything else seems to fit, for the most part. It would explain that fucked up sorta-Jackson thing we saw last night.”

“Maybe.” Derek spots a stray leaf stuck to the back of Stiles’ head. He snatches it away, flicking it to the ground. Stiles startles, watches it fall. He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair.

“Oh, uh. Thanks.”

Somewhere to the left, the river rages on, and the sound of the rapids can be distantly heard over the crunching of leaves under mud-caked shoes. Passing through a small clearing, the sun blazes hot through the gap in the trees, blinding. Stiles peers up at it, squinting.

Derek keeps walking, glancing behind when Stiles doesn’t follow. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to stare directly at the sun?” he asks unthinkingly. His smirk vanishes the instant he realizes what he said, and his entire face shuts down in a flash. He looks away quickly, not wanting to see the hurt he’s caused. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t-”

“No worries, dude.” The kid’s voice isn’t stiff at all; on the contrary, it’s very nearly cheerful. Derek chances a peek, sees Stiles smiling easily, stepping in line to walk beside him. “I’m the king of slip-ups. Can’t really get mad at you for it.”

Derek lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. He snorts, relaxing into a steady pace once more. “Don’t call me dude,” he says. “You do that way too much.” Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“Would you prefer buddy? Pal? Darling?”

“Definitely not buddy,” Derek grumbles, a traitorous smile threatening to turn the corners of his mouth upward. “In fact, no terms of endearment at all, if you don’t mind.”

Stiles clutches a hand to his chest in mock-hurt. “But, sweetheart!” he exclaims, letting his voice go high-pitched and obnoxious. “How else will the world know of our love?!”

Derek rolls his eyes, hurrying along ahead to hide his amusement. “Stiles,” he warns, going for threatening and failing miserably. Stiles bobs along behind him, wearing a shit-eating grin worthy of Jackson.

“Can I still call you Sourwolf?” he calls. “That’s _our_ pet name! It has to stay.” Derek ignores him, and Stiles’ grin widens, teeth white and bared, practically sharklike. “Silence isn’t the same as a no,” he sing-songs.

 

**VII.**

Night arrives suspiciously soon, just as it did the day before. The boys emerge from the woods as the stars come out to dance in the sky, blinking specks hanging above their heads in the midst of the blackness. There are no clouds in sight, but the fog is back, sweeping out in vast brushstrokes over the roadway and across the bridge.

“So fucking sore,” Stiles grouses, bending down to rub his ankles. “Carry me?”

“Quit complaining.” Derek stares calculatingly into the mist, studying the surroundings for signs of danger.

The bridge itself is short and narrow; a lopsided wooden structure held up by iron support beams rising up from the river below. The water is quiet here, glassy and mirror-like, reflecting only the stars. A spiked gate blocks the crossway, and Derek can see a giant lock and chains binding the metalwork together. He thinks he could probably scale the fence, but Stiles definitely couldn’t.

In the field beside the road to the bridge, a ramshackle barn sits on a green slope, boxed in by home-planted bushes and looking decidedly abandoned. No lights shine in the windows.

The boys look at it suspiciously, exchange glances. “Gatekeeper’s place, you think?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods, already marching across the grass. “I’m guessing yes.”

Stiles sighs, obediently following behind. “I hope you realize that we’re breaking every rule in the horror movie survival handbook right now.”

The earth is wet with dew, squelching noisily beneath their shoes. A faint howl causes them to freeze, but after Derek listens more intently, he shakes his head and waves Stiles along. “Just a fox,” he says. “Nothing bigger than that, at least.”

Coming up to the door of the barn, Derek lifts a clenched fist to knock, letting it drop when Stiles shoots him a withering glare. He tries the handle and opens it with ease. The door swings inward on its hinges, creaking loudly in the deafening quiet.

“Such a bad idea,” Stiles mutters, stepping inside after Derek.

There’s a lantern swinging from a hook on the inside wall - dangling next to the rack of rakes of various gardening equipment - but the bulb is shot out, dead. Derek searches aimlessly for a light switch, unsurprised when he doesn’t find one.

The interior the barn is cluttered, claustrophobic. Large stacks of hay bundled tight with thick cords of rope permeate the room with their straw scent. A work bench sitting off to the side by the window is a mess, a rusty wrench gleaming menacingly atop a pile of used bolts. A broken ladder hangs down from the rafters above, leading to a second story landing. Looking up, Derek can just make out the shape of wooden boxes all bunched together in tight rows. Strands of straw poke out through the cracks in the floorboards, pieces occasionally drifting down through the smattered dust. 

“Normally the key would hanging by the door, or maybe over _here_ somewhere,” Stiles says, striding forward to check the desk drawers. “But since our lives suck, it’s probably in the clutches of something large and nasty and murderous.”

“Just keep looking,” Derek says, not exactly refuting Stiles’ assumptions.

An owl hoots outside, wingbeats fluttering in shadows as it passes by the window, fading into a dark blot in the fog. Stiles rummages through the upper drawers of the desk, eyeing the rusty wrench warily.

Derek scans the walls, squeezing through two stacks of hay to cross to the opposite side of the room. There’s no sign of life; not a single heartbeat resounding in his ears.

“I’m gonna go out back,” Stiles calls, and Derek hears the creaking of the side door. “Maybe there’s a cellar?”

“If there is, you tell me first,” Derek says sharply, pausing to make sure the boy listens. “Don’t go down there alone.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, alright.”

“I mean it, Stiles.”

“ _Okay_ , I will.”

The door swings shut, snaps, leaves Derek alone in the quiet. He pushes back through the haystacks, coughing as straw gets in his mouth. Gripping the sides of the ladder, he tests it for sturdiness; satisfied, he scales to the top, skipping the broken rungs.

Up in the rafters, there are patches of floor missing, chunks of wood splintered inward as though punched through by a giant fist. The boxes are all stapled shut with x-shaped cross beams, piled into a pyramid pattern. The shutters of the wide window are torn apart, letting in the light of the moon. Derek approaches the yawning hole and gazes out across the misty field. The vast emptiness is chilling. 

He shivers in the cold, moves away, looking around. Still nothing.

Stiles’ muffled voice calls out - yelling Derek’s name. The werewolf is downstairs in a flash, bursting through the side door with his claws already unsheathed. “What?!” he asks wildly.

But no, the kid is fine. He’s crouched by a pit around back, blowing dust off the plank coverings of the entrance. He looks up, waves Derek over. “Might as well,” he explains, nodding at the gaping hole.

Derek lets himself relax, claws receding back into his hands. He peers over Stiles’ shoulder, grimacing at the crushing darkness beneath his feet. “Stay here,” he says firmly. Stiles scowls disapprovingly.

“Uh, right. Think again, _dude_. I’m not missing out on the fun just because you need to be all martyry and ‘ooh, I will protect the weak human.’ I am coming with you. Get this through your skull now, so I don’t have to repeat myself.”

“Jesus fuck,” Derek growls. “You are so goddam annoying, you know that?”

Stiles beams at him, not put out in the slightest. “That’s what they tell me.” He hooks his arms over the sides of the pit, lowering himself down before dropping into the blackness. There’s a second’s pause before the resonant thump of his shoes hitting the wet ground. “I’m okay!”

Derek sighs, stepping forward and dropping gracefully, landing in the mud. “Did you ever stop to think how you were going to climb out of here?” he grumbles. He feels Stiles pawing at his sleeve, slender fingers squeezing his arm for reassurance in the dark. 

“I figured you could climb out without much trouble,” the kid says, totally nonchalant. “And then I could cling to your back like a spider-monkey.”

Derek makes a pained, helpless sound, grudgingly allowing Stiles to cling to his shoulder as they step further into the cellar. It takes a moment - even with his enhanced senses - for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, red fire burning in his sockets as he glances around cautiously.

There doesn’t seem to be much new down here; just a bunch of wine barrels lined up in a row on a great wooden rack, all musty and empty. The lingering scent of alcohol is still present, though decidedly faint. In the center of the room, more boxes in pyramid formation. Derek frowns, head cocking to the side.

“Stiles.”

The boy freezes, squeezing his arm painfully tight. “What? What’s going on? Is there something that wants to eat our faces? Tell me now.”

“Stiles, can you see at all?”

A pause. “Just a little. Like, I can make out shapes and stuff, but I doubt I could read a label if that’s what you mean.”

Derek extends his free arm, pointing at the boxes. “What does that look like to you?”

He feels Stiles draw closer to him, following the direction of his finger and squinting furiously. “Uh . . . what, the boxes?”

“Yes, but the way they’re arranged. I’ve seen this before. What does that remind you of?”

Stiles hums the _Jeopardy_ theme to himself, lost in thought. He shrugs uselessly, makes a discontented sound. “I dunno. A pyramid, obviously. Maybe a weird leaf, if you look at it from an angle?” He pauses, thinking some more. “Maybe a flame? Fire."

Derek opens his mouth to reply, stops short at a scuffling noise. “Shh.”

“What?” And Stiles is back to the arm-squeezing. “Is something there?”

The answering sound isn’t quite a growl; it’s lower, more guttural. Like the rasping, whistling shriek of wind being sucked through a moist tunnel. Derek sees twin orbs gleaming from behind the wine barrels, gnarled fingers slithering out to clutch at the wood, bending it to the point of breaking.

“Get back,” Derek growls, shoving Stiles forcefully behind his body. “Get to the exit.”

“Derek, what’s going on?” The boy’s breathing is ragged, shallow. He’s on the verge of hyperventilating and Derek doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t have a _chance_ to do anything because the monster is scrabbling out into view, loping across the slick floor - and it’s not a monster at all, but a familiar face returned from the dead. It’s Boyd, jaw dropped wide in a snarl, sucking in air through the deep gashes in his neck. His eyes are milky white, skin tinged pale, veins thick and purple and bulging against his skin. He’s staggering forward jerkily, all loose limbs and rabid energy, and the sight sends a chill straight to Derek’s heart.

“Run!” he yells, and then Boyd is leaping forward, sprawling across Derek’s body and knocking him on his back, trying to tear his throat open. 

Derek kicks out viciously, punches his attacker in the face. He startles at the ease with which Boyd falls away, registers with horror that he’s punched through the dead kid’s cheekbone. A larval swarming of worms and maggots spills out from the freshly made hole, wriggling and slithering back inside through Boyd’s ears and mouth. He lets out a shrieking, inhuman scream, stumbles blindly back into the fray.

Stiles is shouting, but Derek isn’t listening, dodging and ducking and weaving away from glistening claws. Boyd’s attacks are frenzied, unfocused, but Derek can’t seem to bring himself to put up much of a fight - he feels paralyzed, genuinely and deeply afraid. Leaping aside, he grips the side of the wine rack and pushes it forward with all of his strength, wincing as the barrels roll out across the cellar floor with a raucous clatter. Boyd trips, scrambles to his feet, knocking planks aside and striding forward with mad intent.

Another shrieking comes from above, and Derek jerks away, seeking out the source of the sound. His stomach drops.

The mangled body of Erica is sprawled out and stuck to the ceiling. She’s salivating at the mouth, drool dripping from her razor sharp teeth and splashing down in thick globs. Her chest cavity is peeled open, exposed, bright red and packed tight with slimy dark organs. Glued to the concrete by some sticky substance, she drops down low like a spider on a web, swinging her twisted limbs inward as if to ensnare Derek in a vice. He jumps out of the way in time, scrambles back against the wall. 

Boyd is drawing nearer, looming. He boxes Derek in, reaching for his throat. 

And then he drops like a light, the sickening sound of metal on bone echoing through the enclosed space. Stiles stands over the crumpled form with a hammer in his grasp, hand shaking but expression determined. Boyd hisses, and Stiles swings the hammer back once more, bringing it down with a resonant crack. Boyd’s skull shatters, body shivering once before going still.

Erica lets out a cry of outrage, scuttling across the ceiling like some demented crab. Stiles seizes Derek’s hand, drags him back towards the exit. “Let’s fucking go!” he shouts, voice hoarse with fear.

Something about Stiles’ panic snaps Derek out of his own, and he pushes ahead, bending down so the boy can jump on his back. Climbing back up into the night, they roll out on the wet grass, leaping quickly to their feet as Erica’s screams grow louder.

They’re running now; running across the field, away from the barn and the bridge, running towards a steel grain silo at the edge of the tree line. Stiles stumbles, squeaking in pain. Derek skids to a alt, hurrying back to check on him. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I sprained my ankle,” Stiles grits out, rubbing the bruised skin. Derek doesn’t hesitate, bending down to scoop him up, grunting as he stands and starts running again.

There’s a scuffling sound from behind, and when Derek looks back, his gut clenches at the sight of Erica chasing them on all fours, legs and arms moving in 360 degree circles, come loose from their joints and spinning like decayed tires fashioned from bone and flesh. Her neck is twisted at a weird angle, head flapping back and forth with every stumble forward. The hole in her chest is still dripping, leaving a trail of dark goo behind her on the green.

Derek lifts Stiles up on the ladder as they come up to the side of the silo, prodding him to move. “Can you climb?”

Stiles cringes, pulling himself up and pushing down gingerly with his injured foot. “Yeah, I think so.”

He begins his ascent, slipping on the slick bars but managing to hold on nonetheless. Derek follows close behind, heart hammering in his chest. He looks back, stomach lurching as Erica catches up.

She leaps up on her toes, neck craning as she clamps her jaws around Derek’s shoe, biting down and shaking madly. Derek howls, wrenches his foot free and stomps on Erica’s face. Her nose cracks loudly, and she drops in a heap on the ground. The boys keep climbing, and the shrieks echo from far below. Looking down as he reaches the top, Derek can no longer see the girl in the haze of the mist. The sounds fade away.

Stiles is lying on his back against a steel plate, chest heaving with the effort of breathing. He gasps in the cool night air, throws a hand over his face. “Holy fuck.” He casts Derek a sidelong glance, expression a mixture of relief and nervousness. “Do you think she can climb?”

Derek peers cautiously over the edge of the silo, looking down the length of the ladder. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He rather doubts it, however; the girl's limbs didn't look to be in any fit state for climbing anything. He pushes himself backwards with a grunt, scooting to lie alongside Stiles. “We’ll take shifts keeping watch until morning.”

“Good idea.” Stiles’ calm reverts back to panic when he spies blood leaking from Derek’s shoe. “Oh my God, she bit you?! She bit you, Derek! Are you going to turn into a zombie now?! A zombie werewolf?!” Derek covers his face with his hands, groans.

“No, you idiot.” 

Stiles looks unconvinced. “Are you sure? This doesn’t seem like familiar territory, and I’m not positive you’re a reliable source of information on the subject.”

Derek glares at him. “The subject being?”

“Zombie werewolves.”

“Right.” Derek kicks off his shoe, peeling the sock away to expose the wound. “There, see?” he grits out, pointing out the quickly healing skin and tissue. “It’ll be fine in a bit.”

Stiles relaxes. He closes his eyes, tucking his hands behind his head. “Can’t blame a guy for being careful.”

Derek rolls his eyes. His expression softens though, and after a few minutes’ hesitation, he reaches out to touch his hand to Stiles’ forehead, testing the flushed skin for signs of fever. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

Stiles’ eyes shoot open, surprised by the gentle tone. He nods slowly, chewing on his lower lip. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

“I’ll live.” They stare at each other, unblinking. Without the whistling of the wind or the high-pitched irritant of Erica’s cries, it’s eerily quiet up here on the mountain of steel. Derek breaks the silence first, clearing his throat and looking away. He sits up, scratching the back of his head. “You should sleep first. I’ll keep lookout.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles leans back, closes his eyes again. “You know there’s another bridge further downriver,” he murmurs tiredly. “If you don’t wanna go back and look for the key, we could always walk the few extra miles. Loop around.”

Derek nods, even though Stiles can’t see. “Sounds like a plan.”

The boy is asleep within minutes. Derek sits rigid for hours.

 

**VIII.**

They switch off around dawn, and Derek manages to squeeze in a four hour nap before Stiles wakes him to hit the road. Derek can’t remember ever being so grateful to see the sun.

The mist is hanging low over the field, but it’s not so thick that the boys cannot see the bloody remains of Erica’s carcass lying out in the grass some hundred yards out. She is still, frozen by way of rigor mortis; just a dark blot stain against the sea of dusty green.

“You think she’s dead?” Stiles whispers. Derek stares at him blankly. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“I think we’ll be fine.”

They climb down one after the other, watching the body with no small measure of caution upon reaching the ground. When the dead girl shows no signs of getting up, they take to the dirt path leading back across the field and along the side of the river.

It’s surprisingly humid at the water’s edge, particularly for California. Derek smacks his neck at the prickling of a mosquito bite, grumbling to himself as his t-shirt begins to stain with sweat. Stiles limps beside him, trying not to put too much weight on the sprained ankle.

Derek pauses. “I think I should carry you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I’m good. My ego is already bruised enough from last night’s damsel in distress routine. I don’t need another piggyback ride.” 

“You shouldn’t put pressure on that.”

“It’s just a few miles.”

Derek glares. “Get. On.”

Stiles sighs, relenting. He slings his arms across Derek’s chest, holding on tight and plastering himself to the werewolf’s back. Derek grunts, bent over slightly as he marches down the path. “I just want you to know that this is super humiliating right now.”

“Noted.”

Squirming to get into a more comfortable position, Stiles wraps his legs tighter around Derek’s middle, paws at his shoulders to move higher. “Thanks,” he mumbles, embarrassed by sincere. 

Derek doesn’t answer straight away. He cuts off from the main path, straying into the grass to avoid the row of willow trees and their dangling vines. “You weren’t the damsel in distress,” he mutters. “If anything, you saved _me_.”

The words slip out with unexpected ease, and Derek is surprised by how good it feels to confide; even if it’s just a basic admission. Stiles chuckles delightedly. “Did you just _thank_ me?” he asks, unrestrainedly gleeful. “Did Derek Hale just thank somebody? Has hell frozen over?”

“Are you five seconds away from being dumped in the river?” Derek shoots back moodily.

“And now he’s making jokes. What has my life become?” Stiles sighs dramatically, stroking Derek’s hair like a dog, stopping only when the growling reaches a dangerous volume. His smile fades slightly, expression turning serious. “I’d say we saved each other. As seems to be our ongoing dynamic.”

“Hmm.” Derek hoists the boy higher, wincing at the strain in his lower back. “I froze up. We’d probably be dead if you hadn’t thought on your feet.”

Stiles huffs disbelievingly. “I might have bought us an extra second to run away, but I definitely didn’t save the day. Don’t forget who tripped like an idiot and had to be carried. And _is_ being carried currently.”

Derek comes to a full stop, breathing hard. His neck twists the the side, eyes seeking out Stiles’. “Why do you do that?” he asks angrily. “Why can’t you acknowledge when you’ve done something right?”

Stiles blinks at him. “I’m not - I _can_. I just think you’re exaggerating, that’s all.” He scowls petulantly. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re not exactly the poster child for the self-esteem movement.”

“My feelings about myself are justified,” Derek retorts. His face shuts down, closing off all outward emotion. Stiles stares at him incredulously.

“Yeah, okay no.” He unwraps his legs from around Derek’s waist, drops down slowly to the ground. He backs away, dusting off his shirt. “You _do_ get how childish that sounds, right?”

Derek glares at a cloud somewhere over the kid’s shoulder, not able to meet his eye. “If you’re thinking of giving me a pep talk, let me stop you now.”

Stiles shakes his head, face screwed up with frustration. “Not a pep talk. Just don’t be, like, I don’t . . . fuck.” His shoulders sag in defeat, annoyance draining away. “Look, I’m not going pretend to understand all of your issues because I still don’t have the full story, and I’m not really sure it’s my place to give advice-”

“Right so far,” Derek interrupts.

“ _But_ ,” Stiles continues, “I know enough to feel comfortable calling you on your bullshit. Like now, for instance. What exactly _is_ that crap you just spewed? You think you’re the only guy who’s ever made a mistake?”

“Most others’ mistakes don’t result in the people they care about dying,” Derek snaps. “In multiple instances,” he adds bitterly.

Stiles’ expression crumples, contorted in sympathy and sadness. “You can’t bear the weight of that much guilt forever, Derek. It’ll end up crushing you.” He wipes a palm across his forehead, shakes out the front of his t-shirt. A bead of sweat dribbles down his cheek from his sideburns. “I felt guilty about my mom,” he murmurs, ducking his face. “I blamed myself for a long time, and for reasons that were probably a lot dumber than yours. And yeah, the situations are different, but I know what that sort of burden is like.”

Derek’s jaw clenches. “No. You really don’t.” It comes out less angry than discouraged, and Stiles steps closer, tries to look the werewolf in the eye.

“I don’t expect you to just let it go. No one could. But you need to learn to distribute the blame. Turn some of that anger on the assholes who deserve it.”

Derek’s eyebrows knit together in the middle. “Why do you even care?” 

Stiles’ face suffuses with anger. “Because I care about _you_ , moron,” he spits, shoving Derek in the chest. Derek stumbles back a few feet, caught off guard. His jaw drops a few inches. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that look, like you’re surprised or something. We’ve been through some _shit_ together, man. Bonds get made, whether you like it or not.” His heartbeat spikes, all pitter-patter and frazzled with nervous tension. He chews on his lip, anger gone. “So, you know. Yeah. I care, alright? Deal with it.”

He’s looking at Derek now like he’s expecting something, desperate for some level of reciprocation. And he looks so tentatively hopeful, Derek can’t bring himself to deny the kid. “Okay.”

Stiles blinks. “Huh?”

Derek nods. Doesn’t shrug, doesn’t try to play it off like it’s nothing. He says it directly. “Okay. You care.”

“Oh.” Stiles looks conflicted, still expectant.

Derek turns his back, beckons for Stiles to hop on. “I care,” he admits, keeping the tone as neutral as possible. Stiles’ face does a sort of funny wobble, eventually breaking out into a wide grin.

“I think I can walk, thanks.”

“Don’t make me grab you,” Derek grumbles. “Just do it.”

“You’re going to hurt your back. I’m fine, I promise.”

Derek reaches out and snags him by the front of his shirt, drags him up close. Stiles lets out a mortified squeak as the werewolf scoops him up and carries him bridal style.

“Oh my _God_. This is so much worse. This is not okay.” 

He’s blushing furiously, and other circumstances, Derek would probably be smirking, enjoying the hell out of this. But he’s not quite able to dismiss the burning tinge of pink rising in his own cheeks, nor the pool of warmth swilling in his stomach. “Just appreciate it while you can,” he says, determinedly looking ahead instead of down. “I’ll let you walk the last mile if you shut up.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” Derek _does_ smirk at that, mouth slanted up at one side, so wide it feels as though his cheeks might burst. Stiles’ breathing hitches. “You know, you have a nice smile,” he mumbles. “You should try it out more often.”

Derek’s face goes blank. He swallows thickly. “Just be quiet for a little bit,” he says, without heat. “Be still for once.”

Unexpectedly, Stiles obliges.

 

**IX.**

The afternoon wears on, and the humidity persists. By the time they cross the bridge, Derek’s t-shirt is practically drenched with sweat, beads of perspiration stinging at the nape of his neck. He’s kept up a steady pace throughout the walk, not moving so fast as to pull a muscle, still making good time.

The other side of the river gives way to more deeply forested area. Derek spares a rueful glance at the meadows behind before plunging once more into the depths of the thickets. The further they go, the more he recognizes his surroundings. His family used to come out here on runs around the full moon, work off some of the excess energy. He’s not sure whether it’s a good thing or not that he’s beginning to reach a point where he can reminisce without feeling the pangs of sorrow. It either means he’s moving on or simply become numb.

Stopping to catch his breath, he looks down and sees that Stiles has fallen asleep in his arms. The boy doesn’t look the way Derek would have expected: young and at peace, contented. No, there’s a hardness in the soft lines of his face. A sense of intelligence beyond his years that makes him seem infinitely more mature than he tends to behave.

Mature in more ways than one.

Derek stomps down hard on _that_ train of thought, clearing his throat and shaking Stiles roughly. “Wake up.”

Stiles’ eyelids snap open, body tensing in Derek’s grip. “Whassat? We okay?”

Derek snorts. “We’re fine.” He drops Stiles in a soft patch of grass, smirking at the boy’s undignified squawk. “I know where we are now. It’s not far.”

Stiles crawls over to sit on a log, stretching out his limbs. “Sweet,” he yawns. Snapping his mouth shut, he casts Derek a wary look, distrusting. “You’re gonna let me walk now, yeah?”

“If you think you can.”

“I’ll manage.”

Derek shrugs. “Sure, then.” Stiles beams at him.

A sprinkling of airborne powder brushes past Derek’s cheek, cold against skin. At first, it appears to be bark dust coming down from the trees, but instead of dissipating, it increases in volume, turns wet. Derek looks up, blinking against the steady fall of white snowflakes touching down on the hard earth.

Stiles looks around in bewilderment, mouth hanging open in a stupefied expression worthy of Scott. He exchanges a glance with Derek, shrugs lightly. “Well. Comparatively, I guess it’s not the strangest thing that’s happened.”

Derek shakes flurries out of his hair, trailing aimlessly down the path. He hears the crunching of Stiles’ shoes on the leaves behind as the boy jumps up to follow.

A roll of thunder sounds overhead. The tree branches shake, vines quivering like living things hanging down from gnarled wood. Stiles is moving at a slower pace than usual, but he’s still keeping up with Derek, putting as little pressure on his left side as possible.

“It’s sort of beautiful in a way, don’t you think?” he murmurs, looking up at the slowly swirling funnel of fog pouring out buckets of glittering snow. Derek shivers, wishing vaguely that he still had his jacket.

“I suppose.”

Stiles steps closer, nudges him gently with his shoulder. “Let yourself enjoy _something_ , at least,” he says, somehow sounding more cheerful than somber. “Even if you’re a grumpy weirdo who thinks he doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but he nudges Stiles back; with more force, yet unmistakably playful. Stiles stumbles away, squawking as he tries to keep his balance.

The deeper into the woods they go, the colder it becomes. The snow on the ground turns to sheets of ice, slick and hard and splintering into spiderweb cracks with every step. The world becomes suffused with winter, all bitter flakes of crystalline white dripping into water on the brittle leaves. The boys march on.

 

**X.**

It takes maybe an hour for Derek to grudgingly admit that they’ve gotten lost.

“I don’t understand it,” he grumbles. “I _know_ these woods. We should be there by now.”

Stiles shivers in the chill, cheeks pink and lips chapped, looking around cluelessly for some sort of sign. “I think we’ve passed that oddly shaped log at least three times,” he says, pointing. “We’re going in circles, dude.”

Derek lifts his head, sniffing the air and trying to catch a familiar scent carrying on the wind. “What did I tell you about calling me that?” he murmurs absently, bending down to scoop up a clump of dislodged dirt. He rubs his fingers together, frowning as the soil crumbles into dust beneath his touch.

“Sorry, it just slipped out.” Stiles turns to look at him, lets out a giddy snorting sound, half-amused and half-delirious. “Uh, what are you _doing_ , exactly? Are you Pocahontas now?”

“Shush.” Derek stands up with a grunt, wiping off his hands on his knees. The air is too stagnant to pick up anything useful, anything telling. He sighs, frustrated, eyebrows narrowing into angular lines.

Stiles starts pacing back and forth in a sort of ovular path, rubbing his bare forearms up and down. “Maybe we should head back the way we came?” he suggests, teeth chattering. “Start over from the beginning?”

Derek shakes his head. “No.” He looks around at the vast blanket of white coating the ground and settling into the curves of the branches above. “Honestly, I doubt I’d be able to find my way back in this. Everything looks different.”

“Ugh. Well, brilliant.” Stiles hops up and down, scowling moodily out into space. Derek looks him over, considering. 

“Cold?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Nothing gets by you, does it? You sure you didn’t go to Harvard?” He glares for a few seconds before deflating, annoyance draining away into exhaustion. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . . yeah. Really cold.”

Derek nods, starts walking away. “Stay here.” Stiles startles, watching him march through off the snow. 

“Hey! What are you-” He looks around nervously, standing alone in the mist and snow. “I swear to God, if you leave me out here, Derek Hale . . . _Fuck_ , I _swear_. I will rip _your_ throat out with _my_ teeth. I’m not even kidding! It will be messy and gross, and you will rue the day you-” He cuts off short, surprised as Derek returns as quickly as he disappeared. “Oh. Never mind. I actually was kidding, by the way. I definitely had no intention of-”

“Come on.” Derek grabs him roughly by the arm, pulling him off the path.

Together, they pass through a small clearing in the direction of a great oak tree.The base of the trunk opens up in a v-shape, giving way to a dark hollow that curls under the earth and stone. The tree’s bark sticks out at an odd angle, blocking the fall of snow from entering the small cave. Stiles stops short, refusing Derek to drag him any further.

“Oh. Umm, I don’t think so. Like, I’m not even the most claustrophobic person in the world, but _that_ right there? Yeah. Definitely not happening.”

Derek spares him an impatient look before tugging his arm again, insistent. “It’s not that small, Stiles. And we’re lost, and it’s freezing. You need to get warm while we come up with a plan.”

Stiles makes an unhappy sound, looks distrustfully at the dark space. “I just . . .”

“You’re always yammering on about trust.” Derek lets go of Stiles’ wrist, backs up slowly into the steep incline, crouching down low. He pauses at the entrance, looks up at the boy expectantly. “It’s your turn to trust me. I’m saving your life.”

Stiles closes his eyes, mouth drawing into a thin line. He groans. “Fuck. _Fine_. Yes, alright.” He steps down after Derek, shuddering as they crawl together under the base of the trunk.

As it turns out, it actually _is_ a larger space than it looks from the outside. There’s enough room to maneuver without too much difficulty, enough fresh air blowing in through the opening so as to avoid the effect of suffocation. Derek scoots all the way to the back, dragging Stiles with him until they’re pressed back to chest. They curl together in the midst of the roots and rock and dirt, heartbeats seeming to echo in the enclosure.

Derek takes a deep breath, lets out a relieved sigh at the returning sensation of warmth spreading throughout his body. He nuzzles into Stiles’ neck, tucking his chin over the boy’s shoulder. 

Stiles squeaks in mortification, tensing up. He bites his tongue, refraining from voicing whatever thoughts are running rampant through his mind.

The wind shrieks by the yawning hole of the entrance, beads of water dripping from the stalactites of ice dangling from the branches above. Pulling away for a moment, Derek rucks up the front of his shirt, tugs it up around his neck. He snakes his hands under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, pulls it up so that their flesh is pressed together, increasing their body heat. Stiles hisses at the contact, shivers once and goes still. Derek nuzzles up against him, growling low in his chest.

“Derek?”

“You’re okay,” Derek says meaninglessly. Hands trapped in fabric, he wraps his arms around Stiles’ chest, holds him close. “Just focus on staying awake.”

Stiles swallows. “Okay.” He turns his face into the dirt, cheeks flushed crimson. His heartbeat is strong and steady under Derek’s palm.

Derek blinks rapidly, willing himself to focus in on various aspects of his surroundings to avoid giving in to the temptation to sleep. He peers over Stiles’ shoulder at the fresh blanket of snow settling on the few untouched patches of hard land. The precipitation shows no signs of slowing.

There is a trilling hoot out in the distance; the wavering voice of a white owl taking flight over the canopy. Derek thinks maybe he can spot it disappearing into the mist; although it may just be a trick of the light.

He takes a deep breath. Glancing down, he shakes Stiles gently. “Still awake?”

Stiles yawns, nodding stiffly. “Doing my best. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Derek stretches his hands further up, fingers curling loosely around Stiles’ throat, warming the cold skin there. “I have more natural body than you do.” Stiles huffs irritably.

“Yeah. Stupid werewolf powers.”

Derek’s mouth twists into a small, lopsided smile. “You should be grateful for them right now.”

“I _am_.” A pause. “I am. Thank you.”

Derek closes his eyes briefly, breathing in deep. Everything smells of winter and earth and skin. And of Stiles. “You’re welcome,” he says softly.

A flat-shelled beetle crawls over the seam of Derek’s pants, dropping down to the dirt and burrowing in between the roots of the tree poking out through the wall of the hollow space. Scuttling sounds of insects deep underground are faint against the repetitive drumming of the boys’ heartbeats.

Stiles squirms slightly, arching into Derek’s touch and scooting closer. “Derek?” he whispers.

Derek lowers his hands, presses them flat against Stiles’ belly. “Yes?” he prompts, rubbing circles into the soft skin, fingertips tracing the soft curves of Stiles’ lean muscle.

“When we get there . . . to the house . . .”

Derek stops rubbing. “Yes?” he says again, quieter.

“Whatever we find there, no matter how bad it is, do you think that-” He breaks off, hesitates. “Are you going to be okay? Because I need to know. I need to be prepared to . . . I dunno, _help_ you. However I can. I’m not sure what I need to do to make things okay.”

Derek frowns, thinking. He can hear Stiles’ shallow breathing as the boy waits for his reply. “I’ll be fine,” he says eventually.

Stiles chews on his tongue for a moment, clears his throat. “You sure? Because-”

“I’ll have to be,” Derek interrupts. “I don’t really have a choice.”

Stiles twists his neck as best he can, looks Derek in the eye. “You always have a choice.” He bites his lip. “You’ve been through some stuff that I can’t even fucking fathom. And it’s left it’s mark on you. But you’re still _good_. Beneath it all, you’re still a good guy, and I don’t want you to retreat back into your shell again.”

Derek stares at him. “You worry too much,” he murmurs. Stiles frowns, looking almost offended.

“I’m just trying to-”

“No, that’s not what I-” Derek shakes his head. “It’s good that you’re compassionate. That’s something I envy.” He looks away, uncomfortably aware of Stiles’ eyes desperately seeking out his own, and of the proximity of their faces. “But it’s unhealthy.”

“What? Being compassionate?” 

Derek shakes his head again, jaw clenching. He huffs through his nose, nostrils flaring. “No, just the way you-” He stops. “I’m not sure how to put it.”

Stiles shifts closer - if that’s even possible - resting his cheek against Derek’s chest. “Well, try.”

“You keep telling me I should try to be happy,” Derek says after a long pause. “But I wonder sometimes if you bother with that advice in your own life.” He glances down at the top of Stiles’ head, breath coming out in a wispy cloud around the boy’s hair. “Are you happy?”

Stiles jerks away slightly, staring with his jaw open for a few seconds before letting out a high-pitched, semi-hysterical giggle. “Holy shit. If I had known all it would take to get us to bond was having our memories erased and going on a hallucinogenic foot journey, I would have made it happen a long time ago.”

Derek scowls. “Oh, forget it.” Still smiling, Stiles paws at him, keeping him from pulling away.

“No, no! Don’t be like that.”

“This is what I'm talking about, though.” Derek doesn’t look angry so much as confused, frustrated. “When you think I’m being too hard-edged, you respond with jokes. And when I try to be less abrasive for your benefit, you still revert back to joking.” His eyebrows narrow. “And you say _I’m_ the one with emotional issues. Are you incapable of being real for a fucking second?”

It comes out harsher than he intended, and a sharp pang strikes inside his chest at the look on Stiles’ face: as if Derek had just slapped him, spit in his eye.

He grits his teeth together, calms himself down. “I’m sorry. I just hate being lost in the dark. I want to know what’s going on. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Stiles doesn’t smile, looking contemplative, quiet. Not angry, though. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “You’re not the only one with issues.” He blinks, eyes staring up at Derek from underneath long lashes - longer than most boys’.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder in apology. Stiles does smile now, sweet and sad, and his eyelids droop shut as he leans back into Derek’s warmth.

“So am I.”

A gust of fog blows into the hollow, settling in around their brittle bones, all curling tendrils and beads of moisture. The wind screams by and sucks the haze away, leaving the underground space cold and dry.

 

**XI.**

Derek wakes alone in the dark. He startles, realizing he’d fallen asleep against all intentions to stay alert, nervousness quickly turning to panic when he notices that the only heartbeat he can hear is his own.

“Stiles?” He scrambles out through the entrance of the hole, spitting on the ground and wiping away dirt from his face. He looks around wildly, peering through the trees. “Stiles?!”

The snow is completely gone, and with it the mist. The air is warm and welcoming, but the forest is deadly quiet. The sun peeks out from behind a smattering of friendly white clouds, beaming warm rays of light down into the nearby clearing, illuminating the winding path. 

Derek breathes heavily, sucking in air and trying to catch the boy’s scent. It smacks in him the face like a sucker punch: sweat and skin and natural musk, with an under-taste of river water. The trail leads down the walkway, clearer now in the light of day. Derek snarls, shifting slightly as he takes to running, shoes pounding into the dirt as he chases the smell.

His footsteps are the only audible noise in the vast expanse of the woodlands. No songbirds cry, no critters fumbling about in the bushes. Just the smacking of leather on gravel, underlined by frantic breathing and the swishing of arms pumping back and forth.

“Stiles!”

It’s a pointless gesture, but his voice betrays his mind, calling out on its own accord. He looks around to the left and right, searching. He’s running, running.

And then he stops, reaching the edge of the forest at last.

The house is there: standing up on the hill and silhouetted by the sun, a ramshackle stain against the green, decrepit and ominous and haunted. The windows are cracked, punched through at the center and seeming to leak memories of a long-forgotten time. The shutters are smashed, the paint peeled off from the wood. Derek shifts back, suddenly calm. His subconscious is trying to speak, whispering babble-talk in his ears.

He feels frozen, unable to move as he gazes upon his childhood home. His limbs seem reluctant to bend to his will.

And then it starts: the light in the sky fading into an off-purple hue, a sunset vista. The air seems colored in sepia tone, harkening back to things buried deep inside the brain. Derek watches, stunned, as two figures materialize on the front porch, fading into view like spirits blinking into existence from beyond the grave. A man and woman; dark-haired and tall, kind-faced and walking together, arms linked. Derek sees the color of the woman’s eyes, feels it like a punch to the gut.

 _Mom?_ he wants to say. _Dad?_ His voice fails him, however, and he’s left to stand silent, watching as the two make their way across the front yard, headed towards the driveway.

“He’s just shy,” the man says, voice low and placating. “He’ll make friends soon. You’ll see.”

“I’m just worried he’s not happy,” the woman replies, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder. “He seems so lonely most of time. And he doesn’t make much of an effort to connect with kids his age.”

“He’s a teenager. They’re moody.” The man kisses his wife’s cheek, smiles encouragingly. “He’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

And then they fade away, disappearing on the wind.

Derek feels his feet start to move without his permission, carrying him slowly but surely up towards the house. And he begins to feel very afraid.

Drawing near, the sunset hue in the sky fades to black, and the stars come out to twinkle menacingly like little white specks of fire in the dark. The wooden support columns on the front porch look like crooked teeth, yawning wide so that the house might swallow Derek whole. The floorboards creak underneath his shoes as he walks up the steps.

His hand lifts, grabbing hold of the brass knob and swinging the door wide open.

Before him lies a seemingly endless hallway, stretching out into blackness, carpeted with blood red fabric. Derek steps inside, cringing as the door snaps shut. There are doors in the hallway, to the right and the left, all the way down to the end of the line. The hall begins to fill with mist.

“Uncle Peter said he’ll take us to the movies later. You wanna go?” The voice is muffled by the wood, faces hidden behind the walls. Derek walks forward, watches as the first door on the left swings open to reveal a young girl sitting on the edge of a blue-quilted bed. She’s smiling hopefully, talking to someone just out of Derek’s line of sight. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I think I’m just going to hang out here,” another voice mumbles, low and gravelly. The sound sends a shiver running down Derek’s spine, a thrill of dread striking straight for his heart.

The girl’s smile weakens, her disappointment evident. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” A pause. “It’s okay, Laura.”

The girl nods, forcing herself to smile again. “Well, okay. Maybe next time?”

The door swings shut, the loud snap of the lock echoing in the hall. Derek’s feet start moving again, and he turns to the right, watches as another door opens.

There’s a dark haired boy sitting in a chair with his back turned, head ducked low. A younger Peter Hale is standing over him, arms folded and brow furrowed. “You’ve been depressed,” he says calmly, pointedly not turning the assertion into a question. “Your parents are concerned. Your sister, too.” He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, expression morphing into ‘concerned uncle’ mode. It’s a little off-putting, seeing that look on his face after everything that’s happened. “You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?”

Derek wants to lean closer, to hear more, but his feet have other plans, carrying him further down the hall as the door slams shut and another one opens.

The family is gathered together in the kitchen, all seated in their various chairs and looking to the center as if posing for a tableau. Derek’s mother has her hand on a young woman’s shoulder, smiling and introducing her to the others. “Kids, this is Kate Argent,” she says.

Derek feels his stomach turn, staring. The dread growing inside him multiplies tenfold, confusion warring with a strange sense of familiarity. He watches as Kate plasters on a white-toothed smile, shakes Laura’s hand with a firm grip. The door swings shut, and Derek moves on down the hallway.

The next door opens up on the dark-haired boy from earlier sitting on the edge of a bed, shaking nervously as Kate’s fingers work at the buttons of his shirt. “Don’t be afraid,” she coos, pausing to stroke her hand down his cheek. “It’ll be fun. It’ll be our secret.” She flips her hair, lips curling back in what she must think is a sweet smile. Hand sliding down to press against the boy’s chest, she pushes him back on the bed, covering his body with her own. “Such a handsome boy . . .”

The mist in the hall is growing thicker, denser. Derek blinks against the light as the next scene opens into the bedroom from earlier, Laura sitting on the floor next to the dark-haired boy. 

She’s crying silently, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she’s wiping blood off the boy’s wrists with a damp washcloth. Her hands are shaking.

“Why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong?” she whispers, voice quavering. She hiccups, presses a fist up to her mouth. “Sweetie, why would you do this to yourself? Just tell me, _please_ tell me what’s wrong.”

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” the boy replies dully, emotionless. Tired. “They’ll get upset.”

“And with good reason! _I’m_ upset!” Laura closes her eyes, takes a slow, shuddering breath. “Honey, I can’t help if you won’t let me. Can you at least promise me you won’t do this again? That you won’t _ever_ hurt yourself again?”

She holds her breath, silence drawing out in a pregnant pause, and then the boy is nodding. His hands clench into fists, and a fresh stream of blood pools up around the wound in his arm. “Okay. I promise.”

Laura pulls him into a hug. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know.” The boy buries his face in her neck, his back held stiff. “I’m just so . . . angry. All the time. I’m just really angry.”

The light from the room snuffs out in a flash, and the next door creaks, opening to dim lantern glow.

Derek’s mother and father are together in bed, sitting with their pillows propped up behind their backs, speaking in hushed voices.

“Maybe he should see a shrink?” his mother suggests, glancing around suspiciously as if to make sure no one’s watching. “Sweetheart, it’s gotten out of control. I’m starting to think he might have some severe psychological issues. Those squirrels we found out in the backyard? Those pictures he draws? That’s not normal teenage behavior, so don’t give me that line again.”

“I’m just not sure sending him to talk to someone against his will is going to make anything better,” his father argues, looking haggard and frustrated. “If we could just get him to open up, get him to spend more time with other people-”

“He doesn’t _like_ people!” his mother interrupts. Even using a lowered voice, she sounds borderline hysterical, exhausted. “The only person he seems to enjoy being around is Laura, and even _she_ has to push him for information.”

Derek watches as his father struggles to come up with a response. The door swings shut.

The hallway is bathed in smog, impossible to see through. Derek jerks forward, squinting into the light from the last door on the left. Looking inside, he sees the dark-haired boy standing up on his toes, taping up thick sheets of paper to the walls of his bedroom. Laura stands close behind, head cocked in curiosity.

“You’re really good at this,” she says sincerely, encouraging. She places a hand on the boy’s back, rubbing soft circles. “Have you thought about maybe taking it up as a career someday? I bet you could become famous.”

The boy shrugs, smoothing out the edges of a larger canvas. “Haven’t really thought about it like that. Drawing just calms me down.” 

He steps back, examining his handiwork. The largest sketch displays a man standing in shadow in the shade of tall trees, head bowed low and hands balled up into fists at his sides. The man’s nails are sharp and jagged, teeth bared into sharp fangs. Behind him, the dark lines of flames spread out in the undergrowth of the forest.

“It’s pretty,” Laura says. “A little sad, though.” She looks at the boy questioningly. “What’s it supposed to be?”

He shrugs again. “Just how I feel sometimes.”

The door slams shut.

Derek is breathing hard. He feels like his heart is going to explode out of his chest. A light flickers into existence, beaming down the hallway from the direction he came, piercing through the mist. Looking through the dark, Derek sees a white screen hanging down at the very end of the hallway. There’s a word printed in the center, printed in black lettering and out of focus, swimming around murkily.

The whirring sound of a projector accompanies the stomping of Derek’s shoes as he walks closer, hands shaking. The word on the screen is getting clearer, clearer, clearer.

He breathes in deep, overpowered by the scents of family and memory and Stiles and fear. The weight of all things bears down upon this moment.

He leans in closer, blinks. The word snaps into focus.

It reads, _FIRE._

The house groans, and Derek falls to his knees, fingers fisting in his hair as his skull seems to split from the searing pain of a sudden headache. As he fades into unconsciousness, the visions flash before his eyes:

[The boy is sitting cross legged on the floor of the kitchen, dressed in pajamas and holding a bottle of kerosene and a pack of matches. Moonlight streams in through the window, and the dark trail of liquid glimmers, drenching the walls and sprayed across the cabinets. The boy opens the pack and removes a match, sets it alight. Soft footsteps reverberate on the floor, and Laura enters the room from the side door, yawning sleepily and frowning in confusion. “Derek?” she mumbles. “Wha-” And her voice dies in her throat as the boy drops the match. She begins to scream in horror as the flames strike at the wooden cabinets, licking at the walls. The plastic tupperware on the shelves begins to melt, turning to hot wax and dripping into the sink. Laura hears the telltale hissing of the gas stove too late, and as she turns to run, the world explodes into fire.]

 

**XII.**

The white ceiling is blurry. Derek blinks, and it snaps into focus. He has a moment of panic, of disorientation, and he struggles against the restraints tying down.

He lifts his head as best he can, looks around wildly. As his vision clears, he sees that he’s in a hospital room, strapped to a bed underneath a rectangular panel of fluorescent light. The shades are drawn on the window, and the cheerful bustling of people outside the room is audible even with the door closed. Derek feels something soft scrubbing at his arm, and he turns to see a nurse wiping off a dark pinprick above his vein with a cotton ball. She’s holding a needle in her gloved hand.

Derek jerks away, panicking again. “Back off!” he snarls. “Get that the fuck away from me!”

Surprisingly, the nurse obliges. She scoots away on her rolling chair, pausing to touch Derek’s shoulder sympathetically. She smiles at him, sweet and open. “It’s okay,” she says soothingly. “No one’s going to hurt you. You’re okay.”

“The hell I am.” Derek struggles against the straps holding him down. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to control his breathing. Opening them again, he pins the nurse with a hateful glare. “Get me out of these right now.”

The nurse rolls over to the wall, presses a green button above a small round desk. She cranes her neck, leaning close to a little speaker box over the button. “Doctor, we’re ready for you,” she says. Letting go of the panel, she slumps back in her seat, folding her hands politely in her lap. She smiles at Derek again, clearly doing her best to seem as unthreatening as possible. “He’ll be in shortly.” 

Derek’s head falls back against the pillow, arms seizing upward in one last attempt at breaking the restraints before slumping in defeat. His toes curl, feet bare and cold in the breeze coming from the air conditioner.

The door swings open, and Derek cranes his neck to look. A man in a white coat walks in, stethoscope slung over his neck. Derek’s eyes widen in recognition.

“What the fuck?” he growls. “What have you done to me?”

Dr. Deaton approaches the bed cautiously, wrinkles creasing his forehead. Hesitantly, he touches a hand to Derek’s wrist, checks his pulse. “Derek,” he says placatingly, “how are you feeling?”

“You have me strapped to a bed,” Derek snaps. “How do you think I’m feeling?”

Deaton looks unperturbed, waving the nurse out of the room and taking her chair. He rolls closer, stares at Derek concernedly. “Your body has been through a lot of stress. We didn’t want you hurting yourself.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “I’ll ask again. What. Have. You. Done. To. Me?” Deaton pats his arm, holds his bicep in a firm grip.

“If I take these restraints off, do you promise to calm down?” His eyes are open and earnest. “We’re not your enemies. We just want to help.” Derek’s first instinct is to call bullshit, but he bites his tongue, forces a tight nod. Deaton smiles approvingly, unbuckles the straps binding Derek’s arms to his sides. Breathing a sigh of relief, Derek shakes out his hands, sits upright to help undo the cords around his legs.

Once free, he considers going back on his word, considers grabbing the other man by the throat and demanding answers. But Deaton just keeps smiling and turns away to go open the door; and he seems so trusting, so sure of Derek’s cooperation. And so Derek decides to wait it out.

“Nurse,” Deaton calls, poking his head outside. “Will you please escort Mr. Hale back to his room?” He turns back to Derek, gestures for him to stay down. “Don’t try to walk. The muscle relaxant is still in your system.”

Derek pokes at his knees, frowning at the sensation of numbness in his legs. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Deaton nods. “Very soon.” He leaves before Derek has a chance to ask another question.

The nurse from before returns with a wheelchair, rolling up to the side of the bed and placing a hand on the back of Derek’s neck. “Do you think you can get down on your own?” she asks kindly. “Or would you like some help?”

Derek allows her to assist him, gasping slightly as his feet tremble on the cold floor, knees wobbling. He hisses in pain as he scoots back into the chair, cringing at the soreness in his muscles.

Whistling a cheerful tune, the nurse wheels him out into the hallway, turns left and passes through the main room. Derek can see that the building is not so much a hospital as some sort of lodge: log-cabin style woodwork complete with a hearth in the corner, wicker chairs set along the windows gazing outside over the balcony, a green ping-pong table shoved up against the wall. The room is full of people, some wearing hospital gowns, others dressed casually. Men in white uniforms stand by the double doors, surveying the patients and talking amongst themselves.

The wide window opens up to a spectacular view of a bright blue lake at the base of a sweeping hill; a glassy reflection of the clear sky and the wintery mountaintops on the other side of the water. Everything is so still. Peaceful.

“Where am I?” Derek asks dumbly, bewildered.

“Mirror Lake,” the nurse says. She pats him on the shoulder. “Save your questions for Dr. Deaton. His answers will be more useful to you than mine.”

She nods to the men at the door as they pass through, heading down another hallway. They stop at a door on the left near the end of the row. The blue label above the knob reads, _Derek Hale_.

Derek takes a sharp breath as he wheels himself inside. The nurse stands in the archway with her hands clasped, watching.

It’s a plain room, mostly empty: a bed in the corner next to a window locked tight with iron bars, a desk against the wall with an open notepad poking out from the top drawer. And the walls are covered in pictures.

“He’ll be right with you,” the nurse says, nodding and turning to go. She leaves the door open.

Derek stands shakily, and the wheelchair rolls back, squeaking on the tile floor. He turns in a circle, staring at the various sketches: a beautiful brunette positioned to evoke the Virgin Mary, a pack of bright-eyed wolves running through the trees, a house on fire. Another of a boy with short-cropped hair, mouth quirked in a small smile, as if sharing in a private joke.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers. He reaches out to touch the picture, and his fingers come away stained dark with lead.

A pair of shoes squeak as they come to rest outside the door, and Derek turns to face Deaton. The man’s expression is terrifying in its sympathy, in its unreasonable kindness. “Derek-”

“You need to tell me what the fuck is going on,” Derek chokes out, voice hoarse. “Because I’m about to lose it.”

Deaton raises his hands in a non-threatening gesture. “Okay. That’s okay.” He steps aside, glances down the hall and makes a beckoning motion. “We’ll talk, Derek. I just have someone I’d like for you to meet first.”

The woman walks in slowly, lip caught between her teeth, eyes crinkled with nervousness. She’s slightly older than Derek remembers her, but there’s nothing in hell that could ever cause him to forget her face. Her hair is darker and longer, and her neck is scarred with faded burn marks. But all it takes is a single glance into her eyes for Derek to recognize her. He staggers back, shivering against the wall.

“Laura?” he breathes, the name both a curse and a prayer, tainted with fear and hope and doubt. He swallows thickly, feeling certain that his mind is going to explode. “Laura?” he repeats.

She looks like she might cry, flashing him a watery smile. “Hey, Derek,” she whispers, taking a tentative step closer. “Do you remember now? Do you know where you are?”

Derek shakes his head, eyes practically bulging out of his skull. “You’re dead,” he says, jabbing a finger at her. “You’re dead, and this isn’t real. This isn’t happening.”

“It is,” she says, sweet and patient and sad. “I’m here.”

Derek sinks down to the floor with his back to the wall. He buries his face in his hands and begins to cry.

 

**XIII.**

The sun is warm on the water. The trees around the base of the mountains reflect their evergreen shade in the ripples, standing rigid in circles below the white peaks above. It’s a gorgeous view, but Derek can’t find it in him to enjoy it, sitting in a chair on the balcony of the Mirror Lake Mental Institution and staring blankly out into space.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters.

Deaton and Laura are sitting on either side of him, faces masks of concern. Laura is holding Derek’s hand in her lap, thumb rubbing up and down.

“This is going to be hard for you to hear,” Deaton says, “but it’s necessary to be frank in this phase of your therapy. You are right on the verge of a major breakthrough, Derek, and I don’t want to tempt fate by playing this too gently.”

“You’ve been doing so well,” Laura adds, honest and encouraging.

Derek raises his head, blinks at her. “Therapy?” he queries.

Deaton grimaces, scooting to the edge of his seat. He takes a deep breath. “Your name is Derek Hale,” he starts. “You were born to Martin and Jessica Hale. And this is your sister Laura.” He pauses, and Laura squeezes Derek’s hand tighter. 

“Okay.” Derek stares out at the lake, head lolling back and forth. “I know that already.”

“When you were sixteen years old,” Deaton continues, “you tried to commit suicide. You burned your childhood home to the ground.”

Derek’s heart stops beating for a full pause. He has to remind himself to breathe. “No,” he says firmly. “ _No_. That was Kate Argent. She-”

“Kate Argent was the woman who molested you,” Deaton interrupts. “Her family was relatively close to yours for a while, and she took advantage of your age and inexperience. She seduced you.”

“So that she could get information from me,” Derek says, still shaking his head. “So she could _kill_ my family, and-”

“Your parents were killed in the fire,” Deaton says quietly. “You and your sister survived, as did your uncle. You were in critical condition for a long time. Skin grafts were necessary, and it took several months for you to come out of the coma.”

Derek feels like he might throw up. “That was _Peter_ ,” he seethes, teeth bared in a silent snarl. “Peter was the one in the coma. What kind of sick fucking joke is this?”

Laura reaches up cautiously, cupping his cheek in her hand. “It’s not a joke. We wouldn’t do that to you.”

He looks into her eyes, searching. Seeing nothing but sincerity there, he bites down hard on his tongue, almost drawing blood. “I don’t . . .” he murmurs, trailing off.

Deaton picks up Derek’s notepad from beside him on the bench, flipping through the arrangement of sketches. “We’re not lying to you.” He turns the pages so that Derek can see. Familiar faces sprung from memory: Scott and Jackson, and Erica and Boyd and Isaac. Stiles, of course. Many of Laura, some of Peter. 

Derek rubs his fingers against his temples, swallowing back the rising bile in his throat. “So, what then?” he grumbles. “You’re saying I’m crazy?”

“I’m saying that the traumatic experience of accidentally killing your parents ended up damaging your already fragile psyche,” Deaton replies easily. He gestures at the pictures. “Your mind couldn’t deal with the gravity of what you had done, and you lost the ability to function in the real world. So you created one of your own.” He shrugs, setting the notepad down. “It’s not all that uncommon, really. I’ve seen many cases like this, although few so severe. Patients who have undergone harrowing events during childhood and adolescence sometimes have a tendency to resort to wish-fulfillment and self-punishing fantasies.”

“Fantasies,” Derek repeats blankly. Deaton nods.

“Correct.” He taps the notepad. “In your case, it started out with the drawings. You were unable to deal with reality, so you threw yourself into your art. Your sketches represented your conflicting urges to return to happier times and to see yourself held accountable for your actions.” He sighs, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants, rapping his fingers against his kneecaps. “As time went by, you started to believe your own delusions. You became withdrawn, trapped inside your own head, completely unaware of your surroundings.”

“The werewolves,” Laura murmurs, shooting Derek a sidelong glance, careful, as if afraid of spooking him. “Tell him about the werewolves.”

Deaton arches an eyebrow, mouth drawing into a thin line. “Ah, yes.” He looks at Derek directly. “As I said, your fantasies have always been defined by your desires to be happy and to be punished. And when the lines between those desires started to blur, your delusions became . . . significantly stranger. Much more removed from reality.” He opens the sketchbook again, flipping to a drawing of Derek’s family, all of them seated around a stone table in the middle of the woods and feasting on the carcass of a deer. “First, you only believed _yourself_ to be a werewolf. Perhaps as a way of making your feelings of being a monster more literal. But then, it was your entire family. Among others. And then you made Kate responsible for the arson. And Peter who was in the coma. And so on. You incorporated elements of your actual existence into your imagined life. Your family, your friends. Even me.”

“This is bullshit,” Derek says faintly. He’s well aware of how weak his voice sounds, but he can’t really bring himself to care. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe this crap.”

“Eventually, your false world became so unrecognizable from the truth, we had to resort to more drastic measures in our treatment,” Deaton continues, ignoring Derek’s interjection. “You were lost in your own headspace, and we were left with little choice. Laura here approved the use of electroconvulsive therapy to-”

“What?!” Derek yelps, eyes going wide. His body stiffens, and he wrenches his hand out of her grasp, wheeling on her. “What?” he repeats dangerously, eyes accusing. Laura looks devastated, wracked with guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t know what else to do.” Her hand twitches like it’s going to make a move for Derek’s, then freezes. “I wanted my brother back, and I just . . . I didn’t know what to do. The state had put me in place as your official guardian after Peter moved away, and I was lost at sea. I trusted Dr. Deaton at his word to do what was best for you. To make you better.”

“Laura made the right call,” Deaton says, placing a hand on Derek’s arm. Derek shakes him away. “It took a couple of trial runs to work out the kinks, but you’re _here_ now, Derek, and you’re interacting with us. You’re lucid. This is a good thing.”

Derek glares at him distrustfully. “What do you mean by ‘trial runs?’ What does that mean?”

Deaton clasps his hands together, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. “The idea was to try and wipe your short-term memory with electroshock, then employ deep sleep hypnosis to coax you back to reality. Our mistake the first two times was going about it too quickly. Even after the shock treatment, your mind still wasn’t ready to handle the information overload we tried to dump on you all at once.”

“Hypnosis?” Derek’s glare deepens. “So you brainwashed me, is that it?”

“It doesn’t work that way. No one can be hypnotized against their will.” Deaton shifts in his seat, crossing a leg over his lap. “It’s all about suggestibility. After the short-circuiting effect of the electroshock, your subconscious was far more susceptible to outside influence.” He smiles briefly at Laura. “In the end, it was your sister who figured out what was going wrong.”

Derek looks at Laura, and she takes his hand in hers once more. “I did it for you,” she says, a little less nervously than before. A little more self-assured.

“She proposed the idea of us walking you through a fantasy scenario that indulged the delusions you had constructed in your head,” Deaton says. “We allowed you to regain the ‘memories’ of your life as a werewolf, and then slowly brought you to the point where we felt comfortable revealing the truth.” He claps Derek on the back. “And, as I said before, you’re here. This is the most progress I’ve seen in all the years I’ve been working with you.”

Derek swallows, clutching his head in his hands. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to believe you,” he says eventually. He sounds less certain than before, less vehement. “This is too fucked up.”

“That’s perfectly alright.” Deaton stands abruptly, leaving Derek’s notepad sitting on the bench. “It’s a hell of a lot to take in. But I’m optimistic now. I think you’re going to be okay, Derek.”

He dips his head in a polite nod, clasping his hands behind his back as he walks away down to the double doors leading into the main hall. Derek wipes angrily at his eyes, brushing away the prickling of tears.

“What’s wrong me me?” he whispers. 

Laura makes a pained sound, wrapping an arm around her brother’s shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says fiercely. Then, deflating a little, she amends, “Well, nothing we can’t make better. You’re damaged, Derek, not broken. You have a lot of issues to work through, but I’m here to help. I’ve been here for _years_ , even if you didn’t know it. Even when it seemed hopeless, I stuck with you. Because I love you, and because I don’t give up.” Her embrace tightens. “Promise me you won’t give up either. Promise me you’ll try.”

Derek closes his eyes against the fresh wave of tears. He buries his face in Laura’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of home. “Okay.” Laura strokes her fingers through his hair, calming him as she would a small child.

“We’re going to get through this,” she murmurs. “We will.”

Derek jerks away suddenly, eyes going wide. “Wait.” He grabs Laura by the shoulders. “Stiles.”

Laura blinks, bemused. “What?”

“Stiles,” Derek repeats insistently, shaking her a little. “Where’s Stiles?”

Laura’s face crumples, and Derek’s heart sinks. “There _was_ a boy,” she says slowly, trying not to upset him. “The Sheriff’s son, I think. They both moved away, though. After the mother died, they moved away.”

Derek shakes his head stubbornly. “No. That’s not, no-” He lets go of her shoulders, pinching the bridge of his nose and bending over. “No, I _know_ him. He’s . . .”

“He’s not real, sweetheart,” Laura whispers. “You never knew him, except by sight. He’s just a figure you latched onto for companionship. That’s all.” 

And this time, Derek gives in to the nausea, retching violently and spitting up on the floor.

Laura calls the nurses, and they bring wet towels to wipe up the mess, rolling in the wheelchair to take Derek back to his room. All the way back, he slumps over in his seat, mumbling to himself and fisting his hands in his hair. And all the way, Laura is at his side, rubbing smooth circles into his back, telling him it’s going to be okay.

As one of the floor supervisors helps him into bed, Derek is struck by another realization.

“The letter,” he says, not caring if he sounds a little wild. “You really wrote it, didn’t you? That memory was implanted. By motherfucking Deaton, right?”

Laura looks guilty again, standing close by and leaning back on her left foot. “We needed something to serve as the catalyst for the hypnosis session,” she says apologetically. She makes as if to move closer, to comfort, but stops when she sees Derek flinch. Stepping away, she turns her face, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I never wanted to cause you pain. I just wanted you back.”

She leaves with the nurses, closing the door behind her. Derek hears the lock turn in the door. And then he is alone. He lets his head drop back against the pillow, closing his eyes and wanting to scream. His body feels heavy, lifeless. 

He wonders if this is what it’s like for a mind to die.

Desperate to get some sleep - or at least some small reprieve from the hell into which he’s descended - he rolls over on his side, facing the wall. And then he hears the barely audible sound of paper crinkling, just underneath his pillow. 

Frowning, he sits up and reaches under the sheets, pulls out a small white slip. He squints, reading the black lettering stretched out in messy scrawl:

_Don’t believe the shadow people._

His breathing hitches. A shoe squeaks outside in the hall, and he startles badly, glaring at the door. He crumples the paper in his palm and hides it deep inside his pillow case.

Laying his head down to sleep, he stares wide-eyed at the concrete wall. The wheels of paranoia begin to spin.

 

**XIV.**

Life inside a mental institution isn’t all that different from life on the outside; at least in the sense that the hour-to-hour is dictated primarily by routine. Mandatory meals, three times a day. Therapy sessions in the mornings. Recreation hours during the afternoon. Quiet hours starting at 9:00 at night. Sleep.

Rinse and repeat, as they say. It goes on and on.

Laura is there nearly every day, having long since bought an apartment in the town nearby. It’s a short drive from her place to Mirror Lake, and her dedication to aiding Derek on the ‘road to recovery’ - as she insists on calling it - only increases in fervor after that first day of revelation. 

It’s she, more than anything else, that makes Derek doubt his own mind, question his suspicions. Because her presence and manner are so vividly evocative of the girl he remembers: the one who pushed him to make new friends when he was so staunchly antisocial, who listened to him when he was depressed, who loved him more than anyone else. Every second he spends in her company makes him believe more and more that Deaton’s words are true.

“Knight to E5,” Laura says triumphantly, moving the piece across the board to knock over Derek’s pawn. She flips her hair, brushing her bangs aside. She grins broadly, teasing, and Derek can’t help but smile back.

“What about Peter?” he asks, internally considering his next move as he plays with one of his fallen bishops. He’s afraid of what he’ll hear whenever he asks about the past, and he knows Laura is reluctant to share. But these are things he needs to know, no matter how painful they might be.

To her credit, Laura barely grimaces before answering this time, and her voice stays somewhat steady. “I haven’t spoken to him in a few years now,” she says. “He stuck around while you were in the coma, and for several months after that. But he moved away once you started getting worse. When the delusions started up.”

Derek rubs his palms together, nods slowly. He picks up a piece from the right-hand corner of the board. “Rook to H8,” he counters, stealing her remaining bishop. He chews on his lower lip, foot tapping under the table. “So, he got tired of waiting? Or, what, was he angry at me? For . . . yeah."

Laura shakes her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. I don’t think so.” She leans back in her chair, turning to watch as two old men playing checkers at the next table start bickering over a long-standing argument. “I think it was just something he needed to do. For himself, you know? He loved you, Derek, and still does. But he wasn’t prepared for this in the same way that I was.”

Derek frowns. “Prepared?” he queries. Laura nods, looking uncomfortable.

“You were always a bit of a troubled kid. You know that.” She glances at him warily. “You _do_ know that, right?”

She’s trying so hard to be considerate and careful, and it’s simultaneously endearing and irritating beyond belief. Derek snorts, rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know,” he says, a self-deprecating smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Laura’s shoulders drop, noticeably less tense. “Yeah, well. I think Peter always saw it the same way Mom and Dad did. Like it was just a phase.” She shrugs. “I knew it was more than that. I saw the deeper issues. I didn’t know how bad it would eventually become, but still. I knew, on some level.” She sighs, runs her hands through her hair, tying it back behind her head in a ponytail. “Peter couldn’t stay, I guess is what I’m trying to say. The ghosts were too much for him.”

Derek nods tightly, and that’s all they have to say on the subject for the rest of the day.

Therapy is a bit of a mindfuck, to put it mildly. Perhaps that’s a result of Derek’s difficulty in seeing Deaton as a legitimate doctor instead of a werewolf vet. Or maybe it’s just because he doesn’t trust the man. Either way, the sessions are hell, drudging up memories he’d rather leave buried.

“There were a few times that I thought we’d broken you out of your stupor,” Deaton admits after several weeks. “You would look me in the eye and talk to me. You told me about Kate and what she did to you as a boy, and about your feelings of self-loathing and worthlessness.” He adopts a passive pose, placing his fingers together in a steeple and resting his chin on top. “Do you think your emotional turmoil originated with the abuse, or does it go back further?”

“I don’t know,” Derek grits out. “I don’t _remember_ this shit. I remember the relationship with Kate being consensual, even if she fucked me over in the end.” He fidgets in the cushioned chair. “You’re asking a lot here. How am I supposed to reject the things I remember and just _decide_ to believe your version of events?”

Deaton doesn’t flinch at Derek’s raised voice, keeping his expression completely neutral. “You can’t make yourself believe anything, Derek. I’m hoping that, with time, you’ll remember things the way they actually happened instead of the way you’ve imagined them to be.”

Derek grunts, unimpressed. “We’ll see.”

“Yes we will.” Deaton licks his thumb, flipping over to a clean page on in his notebook, scribbling something down. He looks up, expectant. “So, let’s talk about your father.”

It goes on like this.

Day by day, Derek begins to grow accustomed to this new way of living. Somewhere along the line, Laura’s visits stop feeling like painful interactions between strangers and start to be something he looks forward to. Therapy with Deaton still isn’t his favorite, but the more time passes, the more he wants to know the answers. He wants to know the truth. To be well again.

The cafeteria’s stock is surprisingly edible, and Laura magnanimously brings him fast food every now and then when she can spare the extra cash. Two of the elderly patients rope him into playing ping-pong with them, and it somehow turns into a nightly tradition. One of the guys is a chatterbox, always rambling on about ‘The Great War’ and his grandkids and what he’s going to do when he eventually wins the lottery. Derek likes the other guy better; he’s a quiet type. 

The view from the window is lovely, and Derek spends much of his free time out on the balcony playing cards with a schizophrenic woman named Molly. On her better days, she’s a spitfire, pleasant to be around and wickedly clever. Other days, she’s mopey, sullen. Derek suspects the fluctuation has to do with her medication.

Every now and then, he’s allowed to go on walks down by the water’s edge; under strict supervision, of course. There’s a dock that runs along the shallow banks where the reeds drift with the wind and the birds come down to feast on dead fish. Derek likes to stand on the rocks and skip pebbles across the surface of the lake. He’s well aware of how closely his new life resembles that of an aging retiree, but a sick part of him can’t deny that he enjoys it. There’s a certain sense of freedom in the lack of responsibility.

Dr. Deaton is constantly changing his prescription, but Derek doesn’t protest. Whatever it takes to heal. That’s the mantra. He takes every pill, every night. No questions asked.

It’s strangely easy to put the violence out of his mind. At times, he even has trouble remembering what Erica looked like, torn open on the field. He can’t remember if Boyd’s throat was torn open or if his heart was ripped free from his body. He can barely even picture Jackson’s face anymore.

Derek still keeps up with his drawings, ripping up the images of fire and death and instead sketching out grand vistas and portraits of Laura or his semi-friends in the ward. It’s a hobby, more than an art. Just another activity to help count down the hours.

The one thing nagging at him, refusing to stay quiet and let him be free, is Stiles. Naturally. For better or worse, the boy’s face has been imprinted indelibly on his brain. At night, when the lights go out and Derek lies awake in bed, he remembers the sound of Stiles’ laughter, the touch of his warm skin in the hollow under that great tree. Unlike everything else, which grows murkier and murkier with every talk with Deaton, the memories of that stupid, reckless boy stand out in vivid color. Permanent, and so deceptively real.

And then there’s the matter of the notes, which Derek finds from time to time. They come infrequently, when least expected, and they always make his stomach clench with a mixture of fear and hope.

The latest reads, _Don’t trust them. It’s all a lie._

The handwriting is unmistakable, and the paper smells of skin and sweat and boy. And Derek keeps all of the notes stashed away in the bottom drawer of his desk, taped to the inner roof at the back. They taunt him, forever enigmatic.

So yes, he settles into his new life. But the sense of unease never really fades. The doubt remains.

 

**XV.**

The ward gets a sizable check at the end of the next month, and Deaton spends part of the surplus on a new piano for the recreation hall.

“Everyone is free to use it,” he announces during breakfast hours, standing at the head of the cafeteria with the floor managers beside him. “Just so long as you get permission from one of the staff and you don’t cause it any damage.” He smiles beseechingly. “It _is_ very expensive, after all.”

Most of the patients don’t give a damn, although one or two of the ladies like to fiddle around with a couple of easy tunes now and again. Derek probably wouldn’t care much himself, were it not for Laura. She’s something of a prodigy at the instrument, playing out the greatest of Mozart and Bach with flawless and emotional delivery, and it turns into another thing Derek looks forward to: sitting on the bench beside his sister and talking about their lives while he listens to her make beautiful music.

“When did you have time to learn piano?” he asks during one such visit, intrigued. “I don’t remember you playing when we were kids.”

Laura smiles at him, long fingers flowing gracefully, sweeping back and forth and touching down lightly on the keys. “I really only picked it up a few years ago. I started to get depressed after you completely withdrew from the real world, and I needed something to keep my mind occupied.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “This is one of the hobbies that stuck.”

“It’s more than a hobby,” Derek murmurs, watching her fingers move with no small amount of awe. “You’re really wonderful at it.”

Laura beams as though he’s just made her entire week. “How sweet of you to say,” she says, nudging him teasingly. He nudges back, lips twitching upward. His head cocks slowly to the side, smile fading as he studies the lines of her face, the contours he’s never noticed before. It’s striking, her appearance; because while she’s still conventionally beautiful by any reasonable person’s standards, the signs of age and stress aren’t difficult to miss. Her hair has grey streaks in the back, intermingling with the flowing brown.

Derek looks down at his lap, hands twisting together in a ball. “It must have been hard for you,” he says quietly. “All of those years. Taking care of me.”

She looks at him, stops playing. The skin around her eyes crinkles softly. “No, don’t look sad,” she says, touching his cheek and rubbing her thumb over his unshaved stubble. “You’re my _brother_. Don’t you dare think of yourself as a burden. I’d die for you.”

“Yeah, well.” Derek laughs bitterly. “You almost did.”

Laura winces. “Derek . . .”

“It matters,” Derek says, preemptively cutting off whatever argument she’s got cooked up. “If I really did what you and Deaton say I did, then-” His throat closes up. Laura leans in close, kisses his forehead.

“You did something awful,” she says, tossing her hair and cracking her knuckles. She resumes playing, staring out into space over the top of the instrument. “You did something you’ll regret for the rest of your life, and no, I won’t pretend that it doesn’t matter. But what matters _now_ is getting you well. You’re sick, not evil. You just need a little help.”

“I don’t know how to come to terms with it, though.” Derek is watching her fingers again, slightly more relaxed after her speech. “I can hardly even remember this stuff.”

Laura grins mischievously. “That’s what I’m here for.” Derek forces a smile, closes his eyes and listens to the music.

Therapy is going a little better than before. It’s become less tiresome, less of a mindfuck. To Deaton’s credit, he has the decency to avoid the most painful of topics until he feels Derek is ready.

“Let’s talk about the boy.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “The boy?” he asks, even though he already knows.

Deaton nods, looking pensive. “Stiles. The Sheriff’s son.”

“Alright.” Derek shifts in his seat, folding his arms defensively across his chest. “What about him?”

“Laura thinks you latched onto him as a compassionate figure because of your similar childhood traumas,” Deaton says. “The loss of a parent - or, in your case, both parents - is an affecting event at any age. Especially when violence is involved.”

“I’m not hearing a question.”

Deaton raps his pen lightly on the edge of his clipboard. “I suppose I’m asking what _you_ think? Why did you feel such a close kinship to him?”

Derek looks away, staring out through the window blinds. “Does it matter? If he’s just a figment of my imagination, it’s irrelevant how I felt. He’s not real, right?”

“He was real to you,” Deaton says, as if _that_ makes sense. “Your feelings were real, and still are. He was the first person you allowed yourself to open to. It was the first instance after Kate that you displayed any clear signs of sexual interest.” Derek flinches, but Deaton seems unperturbed by the response. “It makes sense that you would imagine him to be so young; it goes hand in hand with the recurring theme of your subconscious simultaneously striving for happiness and self-punishment. You wanted something you felt you couldn’t have.” He scratches his cheek, looks thoughtful. "Although it's true that most of your other imagined companions were also teenagers. Your 'pack,' as you referred to them. Maybe the age difference is representative of your own stolen childhood? Your desire to be young and innocent again? Either way, it's clear that the 'Stiles' figure is at the center of your fantasies."

“You just have all the answers, don’t you?” Derek glares at the carpet, leaning forward in his chair. He looks up. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. That I miss him? That I don’t know how to accept that he doesn’t exist? Fine. I felt something. He was smart and interesting, and he drove me crazy and I really, really wish he was here now. But I kind of just want to close my eyes and forget, and you're making that really fucking difficult for me.”

“Forgetting won’t help,” Deaton says gently. “Forgetting is just another way of repressing the unwanted memories. Which is what triggered the delusions in the first place. You need to embrace the pain, Derek. Allow yourself to accept responsibility for your past actions, and then we can focus on helping you move on.”

Derek scratches his fingers underneath his chin, eyes turning glazed with a faraway look. “I really miss him,” he says, surprised by the ease of the admission. Deaton nods sympathetically.

“I know you do." 

Routine, routine, routine. Every day, very nearly the same. Derek still enjoys the lack of burden, but he’s slowly growing restless. The dark urges whisper in the back of his mind. Some days, he looks out at the lake and wants to dive into the deep, wants to swim to the other side and never look back. Or maybe just let himself slip under the waves and stay at the bottom until the bubbles stop rising.

A strange part of him even misses his pack, regardless of his struggle to picture their faces. These people in the ward - Molly and his ping pong buddies - aren’t really friends. They’re companions by circumstance. And while Boyd and Erica and Isaac (and Jackson) might have been the very same, there was a greater bond between them. A sense of belonging, if not quite family. And Derek misses that, occasionally as much as he misses Stiles.

He misses running through the woods. And he starts to feel like bird locked away in a cage.

“What’s the endgame here?” he asks Laura one day, accepting the offered cup of coffee with a small, grateful smile. “For me, I mean. I’m sure you and the good doc have talked about it.”

Laura looks perplexed. “Endgame?” she queries. Derek bobs his head.

“I doubt you’re planning on keeping me here forever. Or I hope not, at least. When do you think I’ll be released?”

“Oh.” Laura looks uncomfortable. She props her elbows up on the table, sipping lightly at her drink. “Well, yeah, obviously we all want that. Eventually. But . . . you know. You have to understand that you were, to put it politely, out of your mind for _years._ ” Derek avoids looking crestfallen, but something in his expression must be off, because Laura squeezes hand tight enough to pop the joints in his fingers. “Don’t get me wrong, I can’t _wait_ for you to get out of this place. I just don’t want to get overeager, push you into something you’re not ready for. If you relapse and we have to start all over again . . .”

“No.” Derek nods, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “No, you’re right. I’ll try to be patient.”

She breathes out a little sigh of relief, and that’s the end of that conversation.

 

**XVI.**

It’s been two and half months since his ‘revelation,’ as Deaton calls it, and he’s finally started to accept the truth he’s been presented with. So, of course, that’s when it all goes to shit.

The knocking starts just after midnight - a soft, jittery sound that reverberates through the doorframe. Derek squints blearily, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. He thinks at first that maybe he imagined the sound, but then it starts again. More insistently.

“Hello?” he asks, voice hoarse and strained from sleep. He throws the covers off and slips out of bed, wandering over and pressing his ear to the door. “Someone there?”

He can hear nervous breathing on the other side. A long pause. Then, “Derek?”

It’s spoken in a whisper, and the sound makes Derek’s blood run cold. He holds his breath for a full five seconds, letting it out in a quick gust. “Stiles?” he croaks.

Another deep breath on the other side. “Yeah. Yeah, Derek, it’s me.”

Derek pulls his ear away, knocks his head against the wall, nearly hard enough to leave a bruise. He grits his teeth together, runs his hands through his hair. “You’re not really here. This is just in my head. You don’t exist.”

“Derek, listen to me. I don’t have a lot of time, but you _need_ to listen to me. Okay?” The soft sound of socks sliding on the tile fills the brief silence. “Look, whatever they’ve told you, whatever they’ve said, it’s all bullshit. You can’t trust them.”

“Them?” Derek says, almost squeaking with hysteria-induced laughter. “Them, who? Them, _everyone_?”

“It’s the shadow people, Derek,” Stiles interjects forcefully. His fist collides roughly with the door, making it vibrate. Derek jerks away, staring at it nervously. “We talked about this before. They’ve gotten under your skin by playing with all of your fears and insecurities. That’s what they do. I know, too, because they tried to pull the same shit with me.”

Derek keeps staring at the door, trying to control his breathing. His mouth works soundlessly for a full minute before he manages to speak. “Tried?”

“Yeah, but they couldn’t fool me. Remember, I _know_ Deaton. Sort of. And that guy out there, the one who’s been feeding us shit? That’s _not_. I fucking guarantee you that.”

“How do you know?” Derek clenches his jaw. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

“The notes,” Stiles says. “I’ve been leaving you notes. You recognize my handwriting, don’t you? Can’t you hear my heartbeat, or pick up my scent or something?”

Derek scoffs, swallows thickly. “I’m not a werewolf. That was just an illusion, or whatever. I made that up.” Stiles makes a frustrated sound.

“No, you _are_ ,” he insists. “You know I’m telling the truth. You know _me_.”

Derek screws his eyes shut, squeezing his head tight and turning his back to the door. He drops into a crouch, throat bobbing. “I just, I-” He shakes his head violently. “No. _No_. Fuck. You need to go. I’m getting _better_. I can’t keep doubting myself.”

Stiles makes a pained sound, tapping on the door again. “I’m really here,” he says weakly. “I tried to get to you sooner, but I had to play along with their game for a while. I couldn’t let them know that I know they’re lying.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Derek hisses, wheeling around and scrambling close to the door. He presses his mouth to the crack, speaking in through the narrow space. “It’s not just Deaton, Stiles. It’s my _sister_. It’s really her, and I can’t just fucking-”

He cuts off with a sort of strangled sob, turning to rest his back against the door. He wipes angrily at his eyes, hating the overwhelming aura of helplessness that has descended upon him without warning. He can still hear Stiles taking deep breaths on the other side of the door.

“The night patrol is going to come by in a few minutes,” the boy says quietly. “I don’t have much time before I have to get back to my room.”

“Then go!” Derek winces at the loudness of his own voice. “Go,” he says again, quieter.

There’s a brief pause. “I’m real. I don’t know what they’ve done to you. I don’t know what they’ve said. But you’re going to have to take a leap of faith here, dude. You’re going to have to trust me.”

Derek shudders. “Don’t call me dude,” he mumbles absently. Stiles chokes out a startled laugh.

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot again.” The sound of shoes squeaking down the hall catches Derek’s attention, and Stiles hisses in surprise. “Shit. I’ve got to go.” The breathing gets louder, as if Stiles has his face pressed close to the crack of the door now, leaning in as close as possible. “Be ready by the end of the week. Saturday. I promise we’ll have time to talk. We’ll get out of this, I swear.”

And then he’s gone. Derek hears the footsteps of the night patrolmen walking by, and then pure silence. Nothing at all.

He doesn’t bother getting back in bed, opting instead to stay on the floor, leaned up against the wall. He doesn’t fall back to sleep.

 

**XVII.**

He takes a stroll through the hallways of the ward the next morning, telling his supervisor that he wants to stretch his legs but that it’s too cold outside. Walking down the row of doors, he takes a surreptitious glance at each of the labels, checking the various names. They’re all arranged alphabetically, and when he gets to S, there isn’t a single Stilinski.

So that’s that.

Except it isn’t. Because the nagging voice in the back of Derek’s brain reminds him that there is another ward on the floor below. More rooms and more names.

The paranoia - long since settled - is back in full force. Derek feels as though eyes are following him wherever he goes. The floor guards look as though they’re watching him at all times, the other patients leering with crooked-toothed grins. It’s probably just in his head, but . . .

But.

Laura notices, later when she stops by that afternoon. She frowns, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, reaches out and checks his forehead, feeling for a fever. “Everything okay?” she asks concernedly. “Think you’re getting sick.”

Derek forces the best fake smile he can muster. “No, I’m fine. Just didn’t have a great night’s sleep.”

It’s close enough to the truth for the purpose of conversation, and Laura accepts it without protest. She plops down beside him at the table and pushes a bag of cheap burgers next to the napkins, opening up the plastic wrappings and chattering away about her day at work. Derek half-listens, keeping a silent eye out for danger.

His obvious discomfort doesn’t escape Deaton either. The man pulls him aside after visiting hours, brings him back to the office and closes the door.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” he asks.

Derek feigns ignorance, shrugging and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Like what?”

“Anything.” Deaton studies him carefully. “If you’re having trouble or anxiety . . .” He trails off. Clears his throat. “If you’re having hallucinations again, I hope you feel comfortable telling me. It’s not a sign of backsliding. We would just need to adjust your dosage.”

“I’m fine,” Derek insists, plastering on his fake smile yet again. “I just had had a bad night’s sleep, that’s all. Nothing more than that.”

Deaton looks doubtful, but he lets it drop. “Alright. Again, don’t be afraid to talk to me whenever you need to.”

“Definitely.” Derek nods. “For sure.”

That night, he tucks his meds into the corner of his cheek and spits them out when he gets back to his room. He hides them in the crack behind his desk.

 

**XVIII.**

Friday afternoon, Laura manages to persuade Deaton to write Derek a day pass to leave the grounds. The doctor still insists on a pair of musclebound supervisors accompanying them wherever they go, but still. It’s something.

Stepping outside through the front gates, Derek feels as though a tremendous weight has been lifted from his shoulders. The sense of claustrophobia that was growing over the past several days seems to evaporate in a few quick seconds. With fresh air in his lungs and the whole world for the taking, he feels like a new man.

“I don’t want to take you by my work because I’m avoiding my boss,” Laura says conversationally, clicking the button on her keys to unlock her car. “He’s been trying to pass off this shitty assignment on me for a couple of days now. But I’d love to show you the apartment! I wanna know what you think.”

“I’ve never been much of a fashion expert,” Derek replies, mouth quirking upward. Laura punches him in the shoulder playfully.

“Don’t think that’s going to get you out of it,” she warns, poking a finger in his face.

Derek laughs. “Alright. But I’d like to go on a run first, if that’s cool?”

Laura agrees. They drive towards town for a few miles and park on the side of a two-lane highway, stopping at an angle under the shade of the sycamore trees. They strap on their running shoes and jog side by side, staying off the road. Their supervisors follow at a slight distance, sunglasses hiding their eyes, mouths thin and expressionless.

“It’s a miracle you managed to stay in such great shape,” Laura comments, squeezing Derek’s bicep teasingly. “Although I guess you were always an active sort. Even when you were in that ‘other place,’ you still liked to move around, pacing and exercising. Always moving, like you were trying to escape from your skin.”

Derek shrugs. “Sounds about right,” he says, casually self-deprecating.

Laura chuckles, hair flouncing behind her. "Don't think you're going to beat me, though," she warms, running in front of him. "I'm in pretty good shape myself!" Derek smirks, charging ahead, fists pumping. The supervisors pick up speed, trailing close behind.

After their run, they circle back around to the car and head into town. They stop off at a cheap sandwich shop across the street from the local laundromat, and Laura tells him about something funny that happened at the grocery this morning. Derek sips from his straw and nods along to her story, ignoring the guards at the booth three tables over. The whole situation feels so nearly domestic, it’s obscene.

She drives him to her apartment on the edge of town, not even ten miles away from Mirror Lake. It’s a small place - quaint, some might say - but with ample room for entertaining guests. 

Derek stands by the window, peeking out through the shades at the guards hanging by the car, waiting. Laura walks around the living room, pointing out the drapes and the coffee table, and babbling on cheerfully about whatever.

“It’s not much,” she yawns, plopping down on the sofa with a dramatic flourishing gesture. “But it’s home.”

“It’s really great, Laura,” Derek says. She smiles at him and pats the seat beside her, waves him over. He obliges, sits down and lets her wrap an arm loosely around his shoulder.

“You’re obviously welcome to stay with me for as long as you want,” she says. “As soon as you get out, I mean. What’s mine is yours, brother.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes and picking out a mint from the bowl on the table. “Don’t be an idiot. “You know I love hanging out with you.”

Derek chuckles. “Yeah.” He scratches his head. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

“Well, when that happens, I’ll kick you out on your ass.” She grins broadly.

Derek ducks his head. “Duly noted.”

His forced smile isn’t quite so convincing this time, and Laura’s grin fades into worry. “Hey,” she says softly, touching his hair. “Do you need to talk?”

“No,” Derek sighs. “No, I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

Laura bites her lip, still running her fingers through his hair. “Do you think you can be happy?” she asks eventually, voice small. All I want is for you to be happy.”

Derek goes stiff, shoulders tensing into a knot. “Working on it,” he murmurs. He looks down at the coffee table, studying his distorted reflection in the glass. “I’m just . . . drained. That’s all.” He hums thoughtfully. “Better than being angry, though. Definitely better than being angry all the time.”

"Hmm." Laura peels away from him, scooting over to give him space. She sucks on her mint, tucking it into the corner of her cheek. "I always wondered," she says, clearing her throat, "about what the cause was. Why you were . . ." She gestures uselessly, trying to convey some vague idea. "You know. The way you were. I don't think I can remember you ever being happy. Even when we were small."

"I don't know what to tell you." Derek messes his hair, stroking his bangs up into spikes at the front. "I don't know much of anything anymore."

 

**XIX.**

All day Saturday, he’s stuck listening to the thunderous sound of his heart beating a tattoo into his skull. Laura has a project to work on, and Deaton takes the day off, so Derek has all the time in the world to think. He goes through his routine, keeps on the brave face. No one could suspect his inner terror, slowly preparing to boil over.

Night comes, and he doesn’t feel afraid anymore. He feels resigned. 

The walls are plastered with his artwork, sugarcoated versions of a life he never led. He rips them down to expose the pictures underneath. He tears them all away to reveal the fire. Whatever the truth, there is one constant can count on: the house is always burning down.

At midnight promptly, he hears the clinking noise of a clip twisting inside the doorknob, breaking the lock. He steps back into the shadows, pressing his back up against the far wall and watching, waiting. He stiffens as the lock clicks open and the door swings wide,  creaking.

The boy looks the same as he remembers, maybe a little shaggier around the edges, maybe a little older in the eyes. But the hair is pretty much the same, the hardened expression of determination, the quiet gentleness. He steps forward, hands down at his sides, moving slowly so as not to frighten Derek or do anything to set him off.

Derek forgets to breathe for a few seconds, just staring, head lolled back against the wall, just underneath a canvas sketch of a wolf rising up from the ground in the light of the full moon. The boys look at each other in silence, unsure of how to proceed. In the end, of course, it’s Stiles who has the courage to say what needs to be said.

“Your name,” he begins, voice coming as sweet relief to Derek’s ears, “is Derek Hale.” He takes another step closer, hesitant. “You’re the nephew of Peter Hale, the former Alpha who bit my best friend. Your family was burned alive in a fire started by Kate Argent, the woman who betrayed you and tricked you into loving her so she could get information.”

The moonlight is streaming in through the iron bars of the window, twinkling in the twin pools of Stiles’ eyes. Derek shudders, balls his hands into fists.

“You’re the asshole who hit my head against the steering wheel when I pimped you out to my lab partner, Danny,” Stiles continues, half-laughing and half-choking. His eyes are shining wet. He takes another step forward. “You’re the one who threatens to kill me on a regular basis. You’re the idiot I had to hold up in the pool for two fucking hours while we waited for the venom to wear off. You’re the moron who refused to trust Scott and who came crawling to me when things went to shit with the Alphas.” He blinks rapidly. “And you’re the guy who carried me through the forest when I sprained my ankle, and who held me close for warmth in the hollow under the tree.”

“Stiles . . .” Derek breathes, barely trusting his own voice. Stiles closes the gap, chest pressed flush with Derek’s, gazing up into his eyes. He places his hands on either side of Derek’s face, not backing down when the older man flinches.

“Your family is dead, but you are not. Your pack is broken, but you’re just damaged. You’re still alive, and so am I, and as long as we’re both breathing, I’m going to stop you from destroying everything that makes you good. You stupid Sourwolf.”

Derek makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and there are tears streaming down his face now. He’s not sure anymore whether it’s a weakness or a strength to weep openly in front of the people who know you best, but right now, he just doesn’t give a damn. Closing his eyes, he presses his forehead against Stiles’, controlling his breathing and clutching those slender hands tight in his own. He breathes in the boy’s scent, basking in the aroma of home and family and familiarity, all triggered at once. “Okay,” he whispers against Stiles' neck, holding him close in a warm embrace. He nods fervently, shivering. “Okay.”

Stiles pulls away, still holding Derek’s hand. He drags him out into the open hallway, heading back into the main room.

The lights are out, and everything is cast in shadow. The light from the wide window splays out in jagged lines of darkness, giving the piano and ping-pong table the effect of appearing menacing. The black hole of the fireplace yawns like a cavernous mouth. Passing down the second hall, Derek doesn’t hear any of the other patients moving around inside their rooms. He wonders absently if they ever existed at all. He can’t really consider himself an authority on the real.

A soft howling starts up. Derek’s hackles raise, and he skids to a halt, ignoring Stiles’ yelp of protest. They both look around suspiciously, searching for the sources of the noise. Glancing back through the main room, Derek realizes with horror that a dark fog is sliding into place, blotting out the night sky.

“They’re coming,” Stiles says grimly, squeezing Derek’s hand tighter. He yanks, dragging him forward again.

They’re running now, Stiles’ shoes squeaking noisily, Derek’s bare feet slapping on the cold floor. The howling grows louder, louder.

The windows shatter, bursting inwards. Stiles cries out in shock, flinging an arm out in front of his face, and Derek instinctively shields the boy with his body, pressing him up against the wall to protect him from the flying glass. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees a dark figure rounding the corner at the end of the hall, walking towards them.

“Stay here,” he growls, pushing Stiles back and marching out to meet the shadow. Coming closer, he sees that it’s Deaton, and his eyes turn blood red. He looks down at his hands and sees that they’ve lengthened into claws, snaps his teeth and feels the fangs. He growls dangerously, warningly.

“Derek,” Deaton says calmly, placatingly. He’s unarmed, hands raised with his palms facing upwards, signifying surrender. “You need to calm down. Have you been taking your medication?” He glances at Derek’s hands, eyelids fluttering slightly. “Put down the knife, Derek. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Fuck you,” Derek spits, feeling himself shift, raising up to full height. “That’s not going to fucking work. You _lied_ to me. For months, you lied to me and tried to break me down. And you die.”

Deaton flinches, showing the first signs of genuine fear. “Derek,” he says again, repeating the name like a mantra, as if that’s all it will take to make his position seem reasonable. “Derek, you don’t want to do this. You’ve come so far. You’re slipping back.”

The fog seeps in through the broken windows, filling the hall and clouding Derek’s vision. He hears Stiles coughing behind him. “Derek!” the boy calls. “Derek, don’t listen!”

"It's okay, Stiles," Derek growls, still glaring at the man in front of him. "I won't."

Deaton blinks, looking over Derek's shoulder. "There's no one there," he says quietly. "You're just-"

"You can't lie to me anymore!" Derek interrupts angrily. "I can see through you."

“Just put the knife down,” Deaton whispers. “Just put the-”

His voice dies in a gurgle, eyes bulging out of his skull as Derek drives glistening claws through the man’s throat. “Shut up,” the werewolf hisses.

Oily black blood oozes out through the open wound and spills onto the ground. Deaton falls back with a rasping final breath, head cracking on the tile. His body writhes, millions of tiny bubbles squirming under the surface of his skin. And then he implodes, crumbling into silvery powder that gets swept away with the wind, disappearing into the mist.

The building rumbles, dangling lights swinging from the ceiling. Derek looks around warily. Stiles runs up to his side, tugs at his sleeve. “I may have had something to do with that,” he admits sheepishly, indicating the noise. “We need to go _now_.”

The alarm starts blaring as they run down the fire escape, taking two steps at a time. Derek winces as his bare feet stomp down at an odd angle on the second story landing, but he recovers quickly, scrabbling to open the door. Red emergency lanterns flash on and off, illuminating the hall like some demonic strobe light.

Stiles starts coughing again as they enter the lobby, waves a hand in front of his face. The room is filled with smoke, fire blazing all along the wooden paneling of the walls, charring the brown to a dark crisp. The computer at the receptionist’s station is melting, keyboard turning to goo on the once-pristine desktop. The paintings on the walls are peeling back to reveal the cheap canvas paper underneath, singing away into little flakes and fluttering into the air along with the orange sparks shooting out from the crackling flames.

A support beam from the ceiling comes crashing down, shatters the window by the front doors. Derek seizes Stiles by the front of his shirt, pulling him along. “Come on!”

They push through the cloud of smoke, faces turning dirty with soot, hiding their mouths behind the fabric of their sleeves. All the while, the alarms continue screeching in their ears.

They’re almost at the door when Derek hears the cry, sharp and pained and terrifyingly familiar. “Derek!”

He halts dead, heart sinking in his chest, turning back to look. Laura is lying half-crushed beneath the broken support beam, face bloody and hair a mess, eyes wide with terror. Her legs are mangled, twitching uselessly under the wreckage, and her arm is outstretched towards Derek, fingers clutching at thin air. “Derek, help! Help!”

His wolf whines, picking up the scent of pack and urging him to go to her. He feels a vice-like grip seizing at his wrist, and he turns to see Stiles shaking his head.

“It’s not her, Derek. You know it’s not.”

Derek hesitates, glancing between the two of them: Laura, with her unrestrained terror, and Stiles, with his quiet gaze of stricken empathy. “B-but what if-”

“No.” Stiles keeps shaking his head. His face screws up in pain. Pain for Derek’s loss. “Think about it. Why would she be here at night? It doesn’t make sense. It’s _not her_. Your sister is dead.”

A tear slips down Derek’s cheek. He pulls away from Stiles’ grasp, walking back to Laura and ignoring the boy’s frantic shouting. Laura’s face softens with relief, though still somewhat panicked. “You have to lift the log!” she sobs, voice wracked with agony. “You have to get it off of me.”

Derek doesn’t listen. He squats down in front of her, staring into her eyes. The fire blazes all around. Stiles’ voice has fallen silent, and he’s watching the exchange with rapt attention.

Laura blinks, cocks her head. “Derek?” she says, confused.”

Derek swallows. “I love you,” he whispers. He reaches out and places a soft hand on the side of her neck. “Goodbye.”

His claws come out like knives, slicing through the pale expanse of flesh and ripping a dark line across her throat. She gasps once, twitches, then slumps over. Her body shudders in the same manner as Deaton’s, skin writhing with unholy energy.

Derek stands up slowly, backing off and staring at her. He flinches as her body crumbles into dust.

“We have to go,” Stiles says shakily, appearing suddenly at Derek’s side. He tugs on the werewolf’s sleeve. “Please, Derek. Please.”

They turn together and run out into the night.

Looking behind, Derek sees that the entire building is ablaze now. The inferno is raging on all stories, bright light arrayed into pyramid formation, spilling upwards into the heavens. The logs of the woodwork are splintering outwards, crumpling. The fog has turned into a cyclone cloud, circling the top of the structure in the shape of a funnel, screamingly loud.

The boys stumble over the rocks on the bank, stamping through the muddy water and crossing the grass on the way to the dock. The sturdy planks creak under the weight of their feet as they run to the boathouse. A white dinghy is already floating out on the water outside the shed, tied to the dock by a thick rope. “Get in,” Stiles says breathlessly, leaning over and undoing the knot, glancing frantically back at the fire.

Derek climbs down the ladder and pulls the boat closer, tumbling inside and cringing as his head bumps against the edge. Stiles tosses the rope aside, sliding down the ladder and climbing in after him, holding on to Derek’s arm for support. They each grab an oar and start to row out towards the opposite side of the lake.

“Where are we going?” Derek asks dully. He feels numb, lifeless. He can’t form a single coherent thought.

“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Stiles pants, beads of perspiration forming at his sideburns. He closes his eyes for a moment, allows himself to breathe. “And then we’re going home.”

The wind is strong out in the deep regions of the water. A flash of lightning strikes down on one of the nearby mountain peaks, and a roll of thunder splits the sky. The waves rock the boat back and forth. The rain from the grey clouds above starts pouring in thick droplets, unforgiving.

“Keep rowing!” Stiles shouts. “If we can make it to the other side, we’ll be okay!”

Derek shivers in the cold, muscles straining as he twists his oar around to tread through the dark waters. “I don’t know if I can!” he calls back, voice seizing up in his throat. Is this, he wonders, what a panic attack feels like? His chest feels like it’s about to burst, his heart running at a mile a minute.

Stiles whips around, staring at him in fear. “Breathe, Derek!” he yells. “Just breathe!”

A powerful wave sends the boat rocking backwards, and the handle of Derek’s oar swings with the motion to smack him in the face. He feels his nose break, and his vision whites out. Seeing stars, he slumps to the side, falling out of the boat and sinking beneath the waves.

Were he able to breathe, he would sigh in relief. There’s no sound here in the sea of the dead. No voices in his head, no memories to haunt him. Nothing to smell and nothing to see; it’s a empty graveyard laid out just for him. The fish drift uncaringly in the deep, ignorant of the drowning man, going about their business. The plants lodged in the sand of the lake floor sway to and fro, beckoning his body to lie at rest once and for all.

A part of him genuinely wants for this to be the end. The part that would welcome death with open arms. The part that can’t stop seeing [blood/death/fire/pain]. His flesh and bones are weary, wrung out with years of torment, and he just wants to cease  _being_. 

But then the image of Stiles’ face flashes before his mind’s eye. And he thinks, _No_. It doesn’t get to end like this. He doesn’t get to quit. Not when there’s a chance for-

A strong hand knifes through the water and seizes the collar of Derek’s shirt, pulling him back to the surface. He gasps for air, gulping in lungfuls and coughing as rainwater goes up his nose. Another hand hooks underneath his armpit, and then he finds himself being yanked backwards, reeled into the boat and dumped on the floor.

“Are you crazy!” Stiles is glaring down at him, furious and relieved and exhausted and very upset. “You could have died!”

Derek spits up water over the edge, gripping the side of the boat with tight fists. As soon as he can speak again, he looks over his shoulder and allows his mouth to turn up in a rueful smile. “I didn’t mean to,” he teases.

Stiles blinks, stupefied. He punches Derek in the chest. “Don’t do it again!” He runs a nervous hand over his buzzed head, picks up Derek’s forgotten oar and tosses it to the werewolf, still scowling. “I’m starting to think you’re trying to kill _me_. Fucking exhausting, this shit.”

Derek takes the oar, holding it in his lap. He closes his eyes. There are tears forming beneath his heavy lids, but for once, they’re not born of agony and sorrow. The fire still blazes in the distance behind him, but he’s tuned out the wicked crackling. Instead, he’s listening to the sound of the rain, awash in its cleansing downpour. Salty wetness spills out down his cheeks, and he chokes out a mad little laugh, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Derek?” Stiles looks concerned again, all annoyance gone. He puts his hand on Derek’s knee. “Derek?”

“I’m alive,” Derek breathes. He opens his eyes and looks at Stiles; really _looks_ at him. “I’m alive.”

The boy makes an unclassifiable sound. Something simultaneously wrecked and unrepentantly fond. “We both are,” he says quietly.

Derek pats his oar, smiling to himself, indifferent to the rocking of the waves. After a minute of silence, he pipes up, “You know, this is the third time you’ve saved me from drowning.”

Stiles’ expression turns fierce, challenging. “And I’d do it again. Whether you like it or not.”

Derek laughs again, practically giddy. “I’d like that a lot,” he says honestly.

 

**XX.**

Sunrise. The sky is blue and clear, clouds drifted away before the break of dawn. The lake is glassy and still, displaying no evidence of last night’s storm.

Derek and Stiles stand together at the head of the path leading between the two mountains on the far side of Mirror Lake. Smoke still rises from the wreckage behind them, spirits of the past reduced to ashes at last. Derek takes Stiles’ hand in his own, linking their fingers.

“What now?” he asks, doubt evident in his expression. Stiles looks up at him, smiles. 

“Now we go home. You reconnect with Isaac and Jackson, let them know they're not alone. I’ll find my dad. We’ll talk to Scott together.” He looks ahead at the trail, jutting his chin out in defiance. “We’ll start over. We’ll do it right this time.”

Derek nods. “We?” he questions, unable and unwilling to keep the hope out of his voice.

Stiles squeezes his hand. “We,” he agrees.

Derek bends down and brushes their lips together, soft and slow, both chaste and intimate. Stiles groans into the kiss, arching upward to deepen it. It's the sweetest taste Derek has ever known. They stay like that for some time, hands coming up to frame one another’s faces, eventually relaxing and letting their foreheads rest together.

And then they link hands once more and walk out into the beyond. Back to the place where dreams are born.


End file.
